


Love at First Collision

by courageandcheer



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M, adventures of medical doctors joly and combeferre, companion to 'the guy next door', romcom nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageandcheer/pseuds/courageandcheer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion to JJK's fic, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/993325/chapters/1964011">"The Guy Next Door."</a></p>
<p>In which Combeferre meets a man who seems to have apparently fallen from the sky and wonders why his stubborn new neighbor won't ask him out already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JJK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/gifts).



> If you haven't read the original fic yet, I'd suggest you [read it first](http://archiveofourown.org/works/993325/chapters/1964011).

If anything could be said of Combeferre, it was that he did not wallow.  _Wallowing_ wasn’t even in his vocabulary, thank you very much. That verb was reserved for people who didn’t realize the inevitable endings of jobs and relationships and other such things. In his opinion, the world would be a much better place if people would realize that pretty much everything is finite.  _Everything_.

Considering that he definitely wasn’t wallowing and he wasn’t missing any important social engagements that night, it was somewhat surprising to see Jehan through the peephole of his front door. He was standing beneath a flickering florescent light, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right and cradling a wrinkled paper bag between his elbow and his side.   
  
Combeferre propped open the door, letting a sliver of light from the hallway filter into the entryway. The way he was angled, half of his body was illuminated and half was still submerged in the darkness of the rest of the flat. He leaned his head against the wood of the door and blinked quickly to clear his vision.

“Are you going for a Harvey Dent look tonight, or what?” Jehan asked, eying the play of the light in the doorway. “Because that’s just creepy.”  
  
"Nice to see you, too." Combeferre moved aside, as if that had been the magic phrase to permit his best friend entry. He knew very well what would be in that bag and he knew he hadn’t asked for it. He reached off to his left, his fingers brushing against the ridges in the drywall in search of the light switch.   
  
Jehan was undeterred by the darkness and kept on course as the room was flooded with light. He would have been able to find the kitchen counters if he was spun around and blindfolded. By the time he reached the kitchen, he had already kicked his shoes off.  
  
Combeferre watched Jehan pull out a bottle of wine and a quart of strawberry ice cream from the paper bag. 

“That’s really nice and all, but I’m not wallowing,” Combeferre insisted. He folded his arms tightly over his chest.

“Really?” Jehan cocked an eyebrow. He paused momentarily in his search for spoons and a dish towel to wrap around the gradually thawing ice cream. “So, you consider sitting by yourself in a completely dark apartment to be normal behavior?”  
  
Combeferre fumbled for an answer. “Normal, if I were some kind of a vampire?”   
  
“That  _would_  explain your rather strange hours,” Jehan granted. He slammed shut a drawer with his hip. “In any case, you don’t need to be wallowing to enjoy a little wine and ice cream on a Friday night.”

Observing the doubtful look on Combeferre’s face, Jehan slid over to him, his socks slipping against the lightly colored hardwood floor. He latched onto the sleeve of Combeferre’s shirt to steady himself.   
  
He passed over one of the large spoons and attempted to correlate Combeferre’s level of distress with his appearance. The dark circles under the eyes weren’t too prominent and his glasses were only slightly lopsided, but, even on a good day, that was normal for Combeferre. It didn’t look awful, but appearances could be deceiving. 

“You’re right. As usual,” Combeferre conceded. His toes sunk into the carpet as he followed Jehan to the living room, which comfortably housed a flat-screen television and a maroon couch.  
  
Combeferre’s gaze was drawn to the road outside the ceiling-to-floor windows, where a lone car drove slowly down the street. He watched its red roof as it was illuminated by one streetlamp. It disappeared momentarily into the darkness and then reappeared in the radius of the next streetlamp. He kept his gaze fixed on the street outside, knowing that if he were to look at Jehan, he was going to dissolve into tears.

“Better pass the wine,” Combeferre said with a sigh, extending his hand toward Jehan. 

“That’s the spirit!” Jehan said with a half-smile. Jehan shifted so that Combeferre could grab the blanket nestled underneath his thigh. They rearranged themselves on the couch until they were suitably comfortable. 

Combeferre draped the blanket over his shoulders and, looking at him, Jehan had a split second vision of a younger Combeferre with square-rimmed glasses too big for his round face, running around in some backyard with a cape knotted around his throat. 

Jehan passed over the uncorked bottle. Glasses to contain the wine would be unnecessary tonight. Combeferre glanced down momentarily to examine the label.   
  
“ _Moscato d’Asti_?” He read slowly. “We haven’t had this one before, have we?”  
  
“I googled the best wines to go with break-ups,” Jehan said with a shrug. “Apparently, the internet says that if you’ve been left for someone else, the best thing to cheer you up is something sweet. Hence, the sparkling white wine.” He paused to pry open the ice cream. “I think this part is self-explanatory, though.”   
  
With the wine in Combeferre’s left hand, the blanket tucked around his shoulders and crappy reality television flickering in the background, Jehan took one look at the two of them huddled together on the couch and shook his head slowly.

“Combeferre?”  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I regret to inform you that you are full-out wallowing.”   
  
“ _Wha_?” Combeferre managed, his mouth wrapped halfway around the spoon, savoring his first scoop of ice cream. He glanced at their arrangement and shrugged. “Huh. I suppose I am.”

“The first step is admitting it,” Jehan said, reaching over to give him a consoling pat on the back. “It’s all downhill from here.”  

Combeferre swallowed his ice cream. Unprompted, he began to rant, “So what if Jean-Claude wanted someone who could make more of a commitment? I’m a doctor, for god’s sake,” he said, as if that explained everything. Jehan didn’t miss the rehearsed quality of the statement.   
  
“Working already?” Jehan grabbed the neck of the wine bottle, pulling it up from where it had been propped up between their adjoining thighs. He swished it around, trying to gauge how big of a sip Combeferre had taken. Jehan took a swig and savored the sensation of the sweet wine traveling down his throat.

Combeferre continued on, undeterred, “It’s not the wine, I just need to say it out loud. You know how when you keep things in for a really long time, they just end up coming out, whether you want them to or not? That’s what’s going on here.”

“Right. Well, best to get it out, then.”

Combeferre tried to say something else, but the noise got stuck somewhere in his throat. He shoved another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, holding it there as it melted on his tongue. He focused on its coldness to distract himself from the prickling sensation near the corners of his eyes. That spoonful was followed by another, which was followed by two more swishes of wine to wash it all down.  
  
It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The next day, Combeferre found that he didn’t remember much of what had happened the night before. He did, however, notice that the weight on his shoulders felt noticeably lighter.   
  
Judging by the slant of the light filtering in through the windows, they had already slept away most of the morning.

 _Thank goodness for afternoon shifts_ , Combeferre thought. Jehan was tipped over on the opposite end of the couch, using the armrest as a makeshift pillow. Combeferre made sure to tuck a blanket over his shoulders. Jehan stirred under the blanket but did not open his eyes.  
  
Combeferre headed over to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. The pot was about half-full when he remembered that was expecting a package in the post yesterday.   
  
He slipped on his shoes and straightened out yesterday’s clothes, hoping that they looked half-way presentable. He hummed under his breath and ran his fingers through his hair, hoping that he wouldn’t run into anyone while he was down there. He left the coffee pot on the counter to cool while he was gone.   
  
Down in the mail room, he sifted through the letters, looking for any indication that the postal service might have left behind a package.  _Junk, junk, bill, more junk, advert._  
  
Mixed in the usual junk mail was a flyer for a summer blow out party at the local pub. He was absorbed in scrutinizing the flyer and wondering how he possibly managed to get on that mailing list.   
  
The next thing he knew, he was staring up at the ceiling with a strange weight pressing on his body. He didn't remember falling over, but he must have. To be more precise, he had ended up cushioning someone’s fall and that someone was still on top of him. The stranger’s legs were on both sides of his torso and his hands had come to a rest on the carpet over his shoulders.   
  
The man had hazel eyes, widened in shock, and his hair was matted to his forehead with sweat. Combeferre focused his eyes on the ceiling, half-expecting another gorgeous man to fall from the sky.

It took another minute before the two were on their feet again.

“Sorry about that,” the man said, while combing his hand through his hair.  
  
“It’s alright.” Combeferre stooped down to gather together his mail. To his credit, the other man knelt down to help gather the stray letters. One of them had even succeeded in making it to a spot near the front door. “No harm done.”   
  
He couldn’t help but notice that their fingers brushed as the mail changed hands. It looked like Combeferre was cashing in all his good karma for the past year today.   
  
“I’m Courfeyrac,” he said with an extended hand. He was still smiling and his cheeks were still flushed pink. It was only then that Combeferre registered the work-out clothes. The loose fitting tank top did a spectacular job in showing off his upper arms. The whole outfit looked like it was designed to show off as much as Courfeyrac’s olive-shaded skin as possible, and it was making Combeferre’s head spin. His pulse throbbed in his throat.  
  
Cute Jogger. That’s what he’d be called from now on.

He jolted out of his reverie and hoped in the back of his mind that Cute Jogger hadn’t noticed him openly staring. He had a feeling that Courfeyrac wouldn’t have minded much if he would have been caught. He was wearing that particular outfit for a reason.  
  
Combeferre straightened his glasses and led the way to the stairway. He racked his brain for ways to engage Cute Jogger in some kind of a conversation. He ended up saying the first thing that came to mind.

“So, you must be the new tenant in number five?”

Courfeyrac puffed his chest out, obviously proud of his purchase. “Yeah, I moved in this morning.”

Combeferre figured that the best way to make a good impression was to strike a humorous chord.   
  
“This morning?” Combeferre said with a touch of exaggeration. “Making quick work of trying to take out the neighbors, I see.” He leaned a little closer to Courfeyrac just to gauge his reaction. He didn’t even flinch as Combeferre closed the distance. “Mme. Durand in flat 3 has the biggest living room, but if you’re looking for an extra bathroom then you’ve got to take down M. Lefebvre in number 8.”

Courfeyrac didn’t have to know that those were the only two people he knew in the whole building. He  _was_  a doctor, for God’s sake. They reached the first landing and continued on to the next.   
  
To his credit, Courfeyrac’s short little legs kept up with Combeferre’s rather quick pace. He often had to remind himself to slow down for his shorter friends.

They exchanged a little more small talk about Combeferre’s apartment. Combeferre was surprised to find himself talking about his massive library, a piece of information that he didn’t normally divulge until the second date at least. He had been told in the past that the mention of his immense library came off as intimidating to some people.

But this man didn’t seem daunted. His eyes brightened as Combeferre mentioned his books and Combeferre had half a mind to invite him inside. Although the way things were going, there wouldn’t be any reading going on.

He was fresh out of a long-term relationship and supposed to be heartbroken. What was  _this_?

“Well, this is me,” Combeferre said. He fumbled around in his pockets for his keys before remembering that he left it open when he went downstairs.   
  
“Let me know if I can help with anything. Hopefully I’ll bump into you again sometime.” And for the first time in at least a week, Combeferre smiled.   
  
The door clicked shut behind him. He leaned back against it, his hand still clutching the doorknob.  _Hopefully I’ll bump into you again sometime_ , he mocked himself.  _Was that supposed to be funny?_  
  
For some reason, he couldn’t the image of Courfeyrac on top of him out of his mind. He tried not to remember the sensation of their bodies pressed together. It wasn’t really helping his heart rate.

Jehan poked his head over the back of the couch. A strand of hair was still stuck to the side of his face.   
  
“So, where were we?” he wondered, his voice still groggy with sleep. He lifted the back of his hand to stifle a yawn. “Jean-Claude is the biggest douchebag to ever walk this planet?”

Combeferre blinked once. “Who?”

Jehan sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes with his fists. He seemed to grow more confused when he realized he was actually awake.

“Did I miss something?”


	2. Chapter 2

Never before had Combeferre been more thankful for an all-night shift at the hospital. The chance to throw himself into work and to socialize with his patients would give him a much-needed reprieve from the events that had transpired earlier that day. He’d been thinking about his run-in with Cute Jogger nonstop and it felt like he was only going around in circles instead of actually getting anywhere productive with his thoughts.

He slowed his pace as he approached the sliding doors, waiting as they opened with an prolonged groaning sound.   
  
He raised his hand as he passed by the admitting desk. The staff hadn’t changed over to the night crew yet. His heart ached with sympathy for the nurses with frizzy hair and rings under their eyes. He saluted them with a raised coffee cup and received a couple half-smiles in response.

As he stepped off the elevator onto the third floor, he caught a glimpse of Joly through the window of the break room off to his left. He was dressed in his standard green surgical scrubs and was perched on the armrest of the couch, his legs dangling beneath him. He was apparently absorbed with filling out the Very Important Paperwork attached to his clipboard.   
  
Combeferre took a breath and steeled himself.  _Just nod at him like usual and he won’t know anything happened._

Combeferre's sneakers squelched on the recently mopped linoleum floor right outside the break room. Joly glanced up at him through the window at hearing his approach. He smirked and glanced down at his clipboard again, the pen cradled in his left hand scratching against the paper.

Combeferre walked in while taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee.  _See? You had nothing to worry ab-_

“Met someone, have you?” Joly asked. He tilted his head to the side and scrutinized his work.

Combeferre brought his coffee to his mouth again. He swallowed before deigning to answer. “Your instincts are impeccable.”   
  
“So, you have!” Joly said. His clipboard rattled as he smacked it against the couch. Combeferre glanced at the paper over his shoulder and was unsurprised to see that Joly had been doodling nonsense. There were the usual flowers and bees, but he especially admired the triceratops in the bottom right corner. Doodling could only mean one thing.

Combeferre slapped Joly on the back, unable to contain the pride swelling in his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you booked the solo surgery!”   
  
Joly smiled wryly and the color rose in his face. “It’s just an appendectomy.” 

“Just an appendectomy _,_ ” Combeferre repeated, his whole manner nonchalant. Even though he was playing it cool, Combeferre knew he was screaming inside. In fact, he would be willing to bet that if he were to listen to Joly’s heart right now with his stethoscope, he’d just hear a high pitched screeching sound in his chest cavity. “Joly, do you remember med school - ?”  
  
“How could I  _forget_  that hell?” Joly interrupted with an agonized sigh. He dragged his fingers through his hair at the mere recollection. 

Combeferre continued on, undeterred. “Remember when both of us felt so stupid that we never thought we’d be trusted with sutures, let alone a scalpel? But look at you now!” He thumped Joly’s shoulder again for good measure. 

“Yes, it is exciting,” Joly granted with a nod. He was quick to deflect the attention back to Combeferre. “But not as exciting as your morning.”   
  
“How do you know these things?” Combeferre wondered. He was unsure if it was even worth it to keep questioning Joly’s sixth sense anymore.   
  
Combeferre tossed his empty coffee cup into the nearest trash bin and then sank down onto the couch.  
  
Joly twisted around to look at him.  “Combeferre, my friend, I think you’re forgetting something of monumental importance.”

"Pray tell, what’s that?"  
  
"I’m a doctor!” Joly replied, as if that was enough to explain everything. "All the symptoms are there." 

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Hardly.”

“Look, you’re smiling, even though your shitlord of a boyfriend left you high and dry for someone else less than two weeks ago. So, what’s the deal?”  
  
“Maybe I heard a good joke on the way over here. Or maybe I’m just really,  _really_  proud of you," Combeferre suggested.   
  
"Thanks." Joly exhaled slowly through his mouth. “You’re not helping your case by stalling, you know.”  
  
“What!” Combeferre cried out in mock indignation. He was immensely enjoying the act of withholding important information from his best friend. He lived for this kind of banter. 

“You must really like the guy if you’re holding back the details. Tell  _meee_ ,” he whined, grossly elongating his vowels. “Or I’ll tell the Chief who really stole all those rolls of toilet paper from the supply closet.”  
  
Combeferre nearly fell off the edge of the couch. His cheeks flushed and the tips of his ears turned a light shade of pink. Joly had him backed into a corner there.  
  
“Look, Joly, there’s nothing to tell. I hardly even know him.”

“Come on!” Joly pouted. “How did you meet?”

“Well… he sort of… fell on me?” Combeferre said, the pitch of his voice rising as he realized the sheer ridiculousness of the story. He cleared his throat and attempted to clarify. “I mean, I was busy looking through my mail and we ran into each other and somehow ended up on the floor together.”

“Interesting.” Joly nodded in the same way he usually did when listening to patient intakes. “I think we need to do a reenactment for me to better understand.”    
  
“Okay, but make it quick.” Combeferre scooted off the couch and dragged Joly by the elbow to the small space in between the couch and the television cabinet. 

“Just… like… that,” Combeferre said as he directed Joly to the right position. He gently guided Joly’s arms until his palms were resting on the carpet over his shoulders. 

"So, he was, like, actually sitting on you? Just like this?"  
  
"Yeah." 

“Huh.” Joly withdrew his hands from the floor and sat up. “Well, you look pretty hot from up here.”   
  
“You think so?”

The shrill voice of their supervising resident suddenly sounded behind them. “As much as I would love to know the back story behind this little moment, don’t both of you have _work_  to do?”  Both of them flinched, her voice having the same comparative effect as fingernails scraping against a chalkboard.   
  
She leaned her elbows against the back of the couch as Joly and Combeferre scrambled to their feet. They at least had the decency to look suitably embarrassed and chastised.

She crossed her arms tightly in front of her and frowned down at them. “Feel free to correct me if you’ve actually chosen to spend what little spare time you actually have in this god forsaken place.”

Combeferre looked down, studying the knot in his shoelaces. The resident rolled her eyes, muttering a diatribe under her breath about the decline in the quality of interns in recent years, and swept off, her heels clicking as she retreated down the hallway.   
  
“Sorry ‘Ferre,” Joly said as he straightened his scrubs and collected his clipboard full of doodles. He lifted the back of his hand in farewell and headed off in the opposite direction as the resident.  
  
“See you later,” he called over his shoulder. 

Three hours passed until Combeferre had a chance to take a quick break and check his phone. He sunk into the couch in the break room and attempted to get comfortable on cushions that were in desperate need of more stuffing. The late night news played quietly in the background.

His smiled as he opened up a text from Joly.

_still want to hear more about the guy who swept you off of your feet… literally x_

* * *

Combeferre watched the sun rise from his spot in the hospital cafeteria with heavy eyelids and an aching back. Though he’d been on these night shifts for close to a year now, there really was nothing like the feeling of being finished with a long shift in time to enjoy the sunrise. He finished up his coffee, hoping that it would keep him awake long enough to make it back home. 

He shot a quick text off to Joly that simply read  _g_ _ood luck!!!_ before bundling up in his pea coat. The wind stung his exposed cheeks and nose as he searched for his car in the hospital parking lot.   
  
His eyelids had grown so heavy by the time he reached home that he wasn’t thinking much about anything in particular. He trudged up the flights of stairs, his legs feeling heavier with each step. He raised his head as he reached the second floor landing.   
  
He swore his heart skipped a beat as he noticed Courfeyrac in the process of locking his own door. His posture instantly improved, much to delight of his aching back.  
  
Combeferre had a vague thought about the coincidence of the moment; of how he could have barely missed Courfeyrac if he'd stuck around for another cup of coffee or if he would've elected to go home right after the official ending of his shift. Either way, he was immensely glad that the remainder of his good luck had brought him to this precise moment. 

“Morning.” Combeferre said. He felt around in his pocket for his keys.  
  
“Good morning,” Courfeyrac replied, his tone seeped with the utmost politeness. Combeferre was not too exhausted to turn and acknowledge the comment with a smile.   
  
While he was at it, he absorbed the details of Courfeyrac’s appearance. His hair was carefully gelled into place and he was wearing a light colored button-up shirt with suit trousers, which did wonderful things for his thighs. It all looked rather official.   
  
It took a moment for Courfeyrac to notice the wrinkled blue scrubs underneath his coat. His voice was considerably softer as he said, “Or, good night, I guess.”

Combeferre stuck his keys in the lock but did not turn them yet. “Yeah. Thanks,” he finally said as he eased the door open. The vacant couch in his living room was never a more welcome sight.   
  
“Have a good day,” Combeferre called over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him.   
  
He barely had enough energy to pull on a pair of his comfortable sweatpants from the floor of his bedroom and to grab a blanket from the top of the ottoman. He groaned as he fell onto the couch. He heaved a sigh and buried his face into one the throw pillows.   
  
His heart hurt so much. His neighbor had absolutely  _no right_ to be that cute.

* * *

In his dreams, Combeferre was flying. In a scene that bore a strong resemblance to something straight out of Peter Pan, he floated out of his window and above the streets of Paris. He floated over the roof of the hospital and far, far above the chaos in the hallways reeking of disinfectant. 

His heart vaulted into his throat as he suddenly began to fall. He crashed through the roof and four floors of the hospital and even through the concrete of the basement and into the damp soil underneath.   
  
He shot straight up on the couch, struggling to catch his breath.  
  
He hadn’t dreamed it after all. There was a scrape of knuckles on his doorway, knocking in a heavy-handed rhythm that was distinctly unlike Jehan’s usual pattern.  

His curiosity got the better of him and he almost forgot that he wasn’t dressed. Almost.

He was still half-asleep when he pulled open the door. He did his best to swallow a yawn. 

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Courfeyrac asked. Combeferre wouldn’t have hesitated to call it a whimper. But he wasn’t sure if it was a good reaction to his bare chest or a terrified reaction to the sight of his gravity-defiant bedhead. Either reaction was equally plausible. 

“No, no it’s alright.” Combeferre managed to smile. He was still thinking about the weightless sensation of flying, how he had felt so  _free_  from everything. He tipped his head and leaned it against the edge of the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was wondering if you had a hammer I could borrow?” Courfeyrac wondered. Combeferre focused his attention on his neighbor now, noting the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the hair that had fallen to the sides of his face. Combeferre realized that he much preferred it in its natural, ungelled state. He wondered what his fingers would feel like tangled up in that mess of curls. He blinked and wished that his brain would wake up a tad bit faster.   
  
“A hammer?” Combeferre repeated. 

Courfeyrac hastened to explain. “I’m putting up some prints in my apartment, and I have all the nails and the picture hooks… But I realized that I don’t actually have a hammer.”   
  
“A hammer.”   
  
“Yes.” Courfeyrac nodded a few times. If Combeferre didn’t know any better, he would have said that Courfeyrac was positively bouncing on the soles of his feet.   
  
 _Focus, Combeferre_.   
  
“I… yes. I must have one around here somewhere,” Combeferre glanced over his shoulder, as if one would materialize in his living room if he willed it hard enough. He held a finger out in front of him in a  _just a minute_ gesture. “Let me have a look.”

He shut the door and flipped the light switch. He had been so tired when he finally returned home that he hadn’t noticed that Jehan had tidied up the flat before leaving.   
  
His heart was warm with appreciation as he noticed that the spoons had been neatly placed in the dishwasher and the trash had been emptied. Even the spare pillows and blankets were stacked neatly at the foot of the bed.

He paused in his search for a hammer to dig his cell phone out of the pocket of the coat lying on the bedroom floor. He pressed the second number in his speed dial and lowered himself onto the bed as he listened to the dial tone.

“Hey, you!” came the answer, mere seconds before the call was diverted to voicemail. 

“Hi.” Combeferre sat up straighter on the bed. He glanced down at the watch wrapped around his right wrist. “Thanks for cleaning up this morning. And I’m so sorry this call is six hours late.”   
  
“You’re welcome,” Jehan replied with a laugh. 

Combeferre frowned. There was some kind of muted chatter on the other side of the line. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, no, not at all. I’m just at the coffee shop getting some writing done.”  
  
“Oh. Well, I thought you’d be interested to know that Cute Jogger came by to borrow a hammer about five minutes ago."

“Combeferre,” Jehan moaned. “Why are you talking to me instead of doing something about it?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just wondering, like, is this whole thing insensitive of me? Is there such a thing as a mourning period for relationships?”  
  
“For good ones, maybe. But I say it’s good that you’ve found a reason to move on from  _He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named_. Speaking of which, what’re you wearing?”  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Combeferre laughed. He glanced down and stifled a groan. A shirt probably wouldn’t go amiss.

“There's a joke in here somewhere about him nailing you - " 

“Good _bye_ , Jehan!”   
  
Combeferre pulled himself off the bed and dug the hammer out from the toolbox beneath the kitchen sink. He poked his head out of his door, half expecting Courfeyrac to still be bouncing on his doorstep. He crossed the hallway, gripping the hammer tightly in his left hand.

He hovered on the threshold, trying to decide whether or not it was appropriate to go in without an explicit invitation. The invite was implied by the open door, right? Maybe he really was some kind of a vampire. He resisted the urge to pull out his cell phone again.

_I’m hopeless_ , Combeferre thought as he knocked on the open door. He tried his neighbor’s name, savoring the way it seemed to roll off his tongue.   
  
“Courfeyrac? I found a hammer?”  
  
“In here!” he heard from within. Combeferre took a deep breath and followed the sound of the voice. He stopped when he saw Courfeyrac, holding a canvas print against the wall. It looked like it was the only thing Courfeyrac had gotten around to unpacking. 

He tilted his head, searching for a neutral comment about the decor. He handed Courfeyrac the hammer and settled on, “Very minimalistic.”  _  
_

“Thank you!” Courfeyrac chirped. He cranked his head over his shoulder as he continued to talk. “You know, some people don’t get it. But I think it really reflects inner peace and, you know? The fact that I don’t have a car? And don’t really fancy carrying a sofa on the metro?”  
  
Combeferre smiled as he envisioned Courfeyrac dragging a sofa onto the train. One of the armrests hung over the edge and the doors refused to shut. He was drawn away from his thought at the sound of the hammer tapping against the wall.

Courfeyrac had chosen to hang it quite high. He was on his tip toes, his hands working above his head. A strip of skin near his hip was exposed and Combeferre couldn’t stop himself from staring. He knew very well that it was intentional but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the view.

Courfeyrac straightened the painting and took a few steps back to ensure that it was centered.

“I have a car,” Combeferre blurted. He could already feel the blood rushing to his face.   
  
Courfeyrac furrowed his brow, evidently confused. 

“Furniture. I have a car.” He swallowed and tried to disguise the fact that he felt completely flustered all of a sudden. He scratched at the back of his neck. Why did he lose the ability to form coherent sentences around this man? “I mean, if you ever  _do_ decide to forgo the whole minimalist look.”

“I think I’m suddenly over it,” Courfeyrac grinned. He held the hammer back out to Combeferre, but Combeferre shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said. He tilted his head toward the other prints propped up against the living room wall. “Looks like you’ll need it for a little while longer.”  
  
“Alright,” Courfeyrac replied, tapping the head of the hammer lightly against his palm.

“I’m going to, um, get going then, if you don’t mind,” Combeferre said, scratching at the nape of his neck again. “Long day.”

“’Course,” Courfeyrac nodded quickly. “Sorry again for waking you.”  
  
“No worries,” Combeferre assured him. He didn’t have the heart to admit that he didn’t mind the disturbance in the slightest. 

The door was almost closed behind him when he heard Courfeyrac call out to him.   
  
“Sweet dreams.”  
  
"You too." Combeferre smiled and let the door close behind him.

He was still bone-tired, but he had enough energy left to crawl into bed this time. He squinted as the light from his phone illuminated his darkened bedroom. He sent off an obscenely long text to Joly before rolling over and plugging it into his charger.

He was half asleep when the screen lit up with the response. He glanced at it before rolling over onto his side and curling up beneath the covers.

_appendix successfully removed at 10:23 this morning._

_!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_sounds like a d-a-t-e DATE_


	3. Chapter 3

Combeferre consulted the scratched face of his watch, noting in the back of his mind that the silver frame was growing tarnished at the edges. His eyes tracked the second hand for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. The patient in front of him would still be dead, no matter how many seconds continued to slip through his fingers.

“Time of death: 9:37 p.m.”

He tugged the light blue sheet up to cover the shoulders of his patient. Around him, two of the on-call nurses, one dressed in standard issue pink scrubs and the other in custom-order scrubs with orange flower prints on them, hung their heads as they collected the scattered contents of the crash cart. He stepped back out of their way and leaned against the wall. A chill shot through his spine.

Even when he did everything right, even when he’d administered all of the proper drugs and fired up the defibrillator as quickly as possible, sometimes the only thing he was missing was luck.

His pager vibrated with another important message, sending him speed-walking down the hallway to the nearest elevator.

It was close to seven in the morning by the time Combeferre managed to drag himself away to the hospital. He sank into the seat of the car and slouched over the steering wheel, resting his forehead against its upper curve. He inhaled, counted to ten as slowly as he possibly could, and then exhaled again.

He closed his eyes and visualized the list of patients that he would be visiting first thing the following evening. The knot in his stomach loosened a bit as he reminded himself of the patients who were still breathing on their own. Though that one thought wasn’t a lot, it was undeniably something good to look forward to.

He cranked his keys in the ignition. He decided cynicism didn’t really suit him.

A gust of wind escorted him to the entryway of the apartment building, causing the front door to slam shut behind him much harder than he intended. The crash was not well received by his already-frayed nerves. He paused near one of the front windows to pat down his wind-tousled hair.

He checked his mail, lingering for a moment to sift through the envelopes. He half-expected Courfeyrac to come jogging through the doors again while he looked over a few days' worth of mail.

He did earn a wave and a smile from grey-haired Mme. Durand, who ascended the stairs slowly and left a vague smell of liver and onions in her wake. Or, he reflected as he climbed the stairs, perhaps that was just the smell of her dinner, packaged in the white styrofoam container clutched in her trembling hands.

He sighed as he stepped off onto the second floor landing. He eyed Courfeyrac’s door warily and then glanced down at his outfit. His pea coat hid the worst of the wrinkles in his shirt, but the state of his scrub pants was an entirely different story. He grimaced at the sight of the unidentifiable stain that had dried on his left leg. Was that blood?

Regardless of whether or not he actually had dried blood on his leg, he was so tired that the back of his knees hurt all the way down to his soles and he wanted nothing more than to sink into a warm bath for the next two hours. Did he really want to go there tonight? Perhaps tomorrow after his shift…

A disconcerting crash and a yelp came from inside, making up Combeferre’s mind for him. He knocked on the door only as a formality. He was fully prepared to assert his status as a doctor if his new neighbor had been crushed by a wardrobe box or had dropped a piece of furniture on his foot and couldn’t move –

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac exclaimed as he threw open the door. “I was just thinking that a doctor would come in handy right about now.”

Combeferre couldn’t help it. After the day he’d had, his mind was already in overdrive and assuming the worst. “What happened? Concussion? Dislocated limb?”

“Oh, God, no,” Courfeyrac scoffed. The expression in his usually bright eyes seemed to soften. Or was he just seeing things?

“I jammed my finger trying to move something is all,” Courfeyrac explained. “Perhaps you could just take a quick look, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

Courfeyrac led the way into his flat, where most of the boxes were still stacked in much the same place as when Combeferre had been in there last. Most of the minimalist prints had been hung on the wall and the hammer was lying on the kitchen counter.

After deciding that the light in the kitchen was the best for an impromptu exam, Combeferre examined Courfeyrac’s outstretched hand, looking for any signs of bone peeking through the skin. The only thing he saw was a slight purplish bruise in the place where he had jammed his middle finger. He also noticed a smattering of freckles across the back of Courfeyrac’s hand, which was altogether beside the point.

In the back of his mind, he suddenly remembered in vivid detail all the times his patients had told him his hands were ice-cold. Perhaps Courfeyrac would be too distracted to notice.

Courfeyrac sighed and adopted a grim tone, his voice no louder than a whisper. “What’s the prognosis, doc?”

"Why are you talking like that?"

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Heard it in a film once."

“Oh. Well, it’s just bruised. For the next two to three days, ice packs and ibuprofen will be your best friends,” Combeferre informed him as he released his grip.

“Great. And I was right in the middle of something.” Combeferre followed Courfeyrac’s line of vision, noting the open boxes scattered around the hardwood floors.

Whereas Combeferre was methodical and stuck to unpacking one box at a time, it looked like Courfeyrac had started little projects _everywhere_. How could he get anything done like that? Obviously it wasn’t working too well for him.

Courfeyrac was still scrutinizing his hand as Combeferre said, “Mind if I help?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Be my guest.”

Combeferre crouched down on his knees in front of the nearest box. It didn’t hurt things that his back was to Courfeyrac; he could only hope his neighbor was enjoying the view while it lasted. A second too late he remembered that his butt looked absolutely shapeless in scrubs.

His back audibly cracked as he stood up again. _God, I am so old,_ Combeferre thought.

He pulled out an armful of dish towels from the medium sized box, cradling them in both arms.

With his hands full, he made a vague gesture with his arms. By means of explanation he said, “Just tell me where to go. I’ll carry it wherever you want it.”

The next hour passed as Combeferre trailed behind Courfeyrac as he talked him through the proper unpacking procedures. They replaced most of the miscellaneous objects in the various closets throughout the flat, Combeferre taking the time to refold the towels and the blankets and stacking them exactly the way Courfeyrac wanted them.

Combeferre would have been unable to deny the simple fact that he was immensely enjoying getting to tour Courfeyrac’s flat, even in its current unkempt state. And he was pleased to see that there would be plenty of room over here if they ever decided to move in together.

And that’s how he knew he was already too far gone.

“You still up to furniture shopping?” Combeferre wondered as he sat cross legged in front of a cabinet a little while later, stacking and arranging cupcake trays. He moved on to the next task, which was unpacking a particularly nice set of glasses and stacking them in one of the kitchen cabinets.

“I am always up to furniture shopping,” Courfeyrac replied, pausing momentarily in his task of tearing the packing tape off of another box.

“Saturday, then,” Combeferre confirmed.

“Sounds good.”

While Combeferre had his back turned lining up the glasses, Courfeyrac began setting a stack of fancy plates in an adjacent cabinet. He slid it to the back of the cupboard, standing all the way up on his toes to reach the tallest shelf. It was truly a miracle that none of the plates ended up broken with the altogether unwise combination of several stacked plates and an injured finger.

Combeferre cranked his head over his shoulder, watching Courfeyrac dig through a box he had cut open sometime earlier. Combeferre had learned in the past hour that Courfeyrac was the kind of person who didn’t like to sit around and watch. He always had to be doing something.

Combeferre stood up, his hands gripping his knees as he straightened his legs. There was a disconcerting cracking sound in his back. “I’ll have work in the evening, so we’ll have to go early.”

Courfeyrac stepped over an unopened box labeled BEDROOM in black sharpie. He reached out to touch Combeferre’s forearm with his uninjured hand.

“That’s fine with me. And thank you – _again_ – I – ”

Combeferre flinched at the sound of the intercom. It sounded eerily similar to the sound the heart monitor made when someone coded.

A muffled female voice crackled through the speaker. “It’s me.”

Courfeyrac reached over Combeferre to press the button buzz her in. That motion was enough to jolt Combeferre out of his thoughts and enough for him to realize how close he and Courfeyrac had been standing. Perhaps the newcomers would distract his thoughts, which were currently stuck on the array of freckles on the bridge of Courfeyrac’s nose.

The door swung open and they both pivoted around. Combeferre thought that their synchronization was slightly impressive. But his attention was immediately drawn to something else. He couldn’t help but notice that Courfeyrac’s body stiffened in the presence of the people who were supposedly his friends.

The woman appraised the flat and then said, “Nice building!”   
  
Her heeled boots clicked against the hardwood as the crossed the room and stood in front of the window, presumably admiring the view. Two more people followed her in, both men. One of them was frowning and looking between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The other one was kneading his hands together.

“Hey, Courf, hope you don’t mind,” the man with unruly dark hair said. He combed his fingers through his curls and eyed Courfeyrac nervously.

“Who’s this?” the other man asked, as if he was demanding an introduction. His expression was a borderline scowl now. Combeferre wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. In any case, it was time to go.

“Combeferre,” he hastened to introduce himself. “I live across the hall… And I probably should be getting back.”

“We’re going to order take out,” the woman informed him. She gave him a once-over before adding, “If you want to join us.”

“Thanks, but no. Not on this occasion.” He knew he needed an excuse. He went with the first thing that came to mind. “I have work in a few hours – I should really be getting back. So, Saturday?” He just wanted to check one more time as he edged toward the door. “We’ll leave around ten?”

Courfeyrac didn’t have to know that he didn’t have work anytime soon, and he had already switched his shift on Saturday, just in case things happened to go better than he expected them to. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

“Can’t wait.” It seemed sincere enough, but Combeferre wasn’t going to stick around and overthink things. He attempted to ignore his growing interest in getting to know the people Courfeyrac spent his free time with.

“Nice meeting you all,” Combeferre said, mimicking a half-salute, half-wave that he had seen the Chief of Medicine do once before. He got the message that all three friends wanted him to go. No matter, that warm bath had been calling his name for hours.

As he settled into the tub about ten minutes later, sinking down until the water line was right below his nose, he reminded himself to be thankful that at least two things had gone right today.

No matter what happened during the second half of the week, a majority of his patients were still alive _and_ he had a date to look forward to.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning before the much-anticipated IKEA date, Combeferre couldn’t sleep. As he rested, time seemed to moving infinitesimally slowly around him until it seemed to stop completely. He was sprawled on his back with one leg still curled underneath the covers and one hanging out over the edge of the mattress.

He marveled that he hadn’t been awake this early in the morning since the night before his hospital internship officially began. The stars outside his blinds looked the same as they had a few months earlier and the feelings twisting around in his chest were more or less the same, as well.

He had lost track of the number of times he had pressed the power button on his phone and glanced at the time. By now, faint rays of sunlight were peeking through his blinds. _6:55 AM._

He figured it was going to take at least an hour for him to get his contacts in place and he wasn’t going to accomplish anything if he was just lying there. He threw the covers aside decisively. The mattress dipped beneath him as he swung his legs over the edge and slipped his feet into oversized fuzzy slippers. The slippers were an ugly paisley color, but he loved his great aunt too much to ever consider giving them away.

Even though he didn’t truly enjoy the sensation of his fingers prodding at his corneas, he thought he looked better in contacts, especially since his glasses constantly slipped down his nose. And glasses weren’t conducive to good kissing. Not that he thought that there’d be any of that going on today. Didn’t mean he couldn’t dream.

He only had a few minutes left for breakfast by the time he figured out what to wear, remembering only at the end of the third outfit the one time that Jehan told him he looked really good in maroon. A hastily swallowed bowl of cereal and lukewarm coffee would have to do.

He consulted his watch one more time, making sure it was exactly ten when he reached out to knock on Courfeyrac’s door. He made a mental note to try and check his watch less today, but, as a doctor, it was difficult to reign in the persistent nagging feeling that he should be elsewhere.

After a moment and a slightly disconcerting crash from inside, the door swung open. Courfeyrac’s face was flushed pink and his hair was only fluffed up on one side of his head.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac said with a grin. He pulled the door shut behind him and leant against it to finish pushing up his hair. For some reason, Combeferre was secretly satisfied that Courfeyrac had shorted time on his hairstyle to pick out the perfect outfit.

It didn’t matter to Combeferre if he were wearing jeans or lounge pants or even that obscenely revealing jogging outfit; either way, he’d still want to take Courfeyrac back home and back him up against one of the tall bookshelves and –

_Focus, Combeferre._ He had to shake his head to get rid of those thoughts.

In his excitement, Courfeyrac took the stairs two at a time, while Combeferre trailed along behind him, trying to forget his nervousness by focusing on the sensation of the handrail sliding underneath his palm. He wanted to remember everything about today, including the way the cool air felt rushing into his lungs and how Courfeyrac bounded ahead of him and then turned back, slightly embarrassed, as it dawned on him that he had no idea which car belonged to Combeferre.

With Courfeyrac sitting so close to him, it took all of his energy to focus on keeping the car in the proper lane. Combeferre drove one-handed for a minute as he cracked the windows a few inches. Whatever cologne Courfeyrac was wearing, and it smelled like he had applied the whole bottle, was making his eyes water.

A few minutes passed and the seats began to vibrate as Courfeyrac turned up a pop station to altogether indecent levels. Combeferre stole a glance at him as he approached a stoplight, unable to suppress a chuckle at Courfeyrac's passionate air drumming. He brought the car to a more abrupt stop than he’d intended.

As he waited for the light to turn, Combeferre found himself thinking that he would take catchy pop over Jean-Claude’s pretentious classical music stations any day of the week. Correction: he’d take Courfeyrac’s passion over Jean-Claude’s aloofness _everyday_ of the week.

He couldn’t help but smile as Courfeyrac belted the last note and very nearly matched the correct pitch.

“Wonderful,” Combeferre said with a few appreciative claps. He saw an opportunity to glean some information and went for it before he lost his nerve. “Though I’m not sure you should quit your day job. Unless – of course – that is your day job?”

"Ha." Courfeyrac joined him around the back of the car, straightening his shirt. “I manage Human Resources at…” he trailed off, evidently distracted by something. Though Combeferre pretended not to hear it, Courfeyrac cursed under his breath.

Combeferre followed his line of vision, noticing the two friends from other night loitering near the front doors of the IKEA. Judging by the look of alarm that flashed in Courfeyrac’s eyes, this little run-in didn’t look like it had been planned. Courfeyrac turned to him with a grimace, his eyebrows knit together. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

A wave of disappointment made Combeferre’s limbs feel heavy as they stepped onto the curb in front of the store.

The blonde one was the first to speak. He had his hair tucked into a red beanie this morning. “Good morning. Fancy seeing you here.”

His companion still had tangled curly hair that looked like it hadn’t been touched by a comb in a week at least. His gaze darted between Combeferre and Courfeyrac and he seemed to retreat further into his hoodie. He said something under his breath that Combeferre didn’t quite catch.

The sun suddenly felt too hot on his face and his ears were faintly ringing. He steeled himself and then followed the advice that one of the attendings had given him once: take a breath and address one problem at a time.

Since the one with the darker hair was still grumbling, Combeferre zeroed in on the blonde haired one first.

Combeferre shoved his hands in the pocket of his jeans. He was capable of being clever and charming on most days and he was going to make them like him, damn it. He shoved his disappointment about the foiled date down in the general direction of his stomach, where he could stash it until he had a chance to deal with it later. “We met the other night, but I don’t think I caught your name?” He asked. He forced himself to smile.

“Enjolras. And this is Grantaire. He’s my boyfriend.” Enjolras gestured to the man beside him, who was blushing all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears.

Combeferre pried a little more, only to discover their mutual passion for philosophy. A few more pointed questions unearthed enthusiastic gushing about Enjolras’ activist group, something Combeferre felt safe in assuming Courfeyrac was part of also. He filed that information away for future reference. Expressing an interest in activism was all it took to solidify their friendship.

Courfeyrac and Grantaire all but forgotten, Combeferre and Enjolras wandered around IKEA, mysteriously finding themselves in the kitchen section without really realizing that they’d managed to get that far in the first place. They conversed, Enjolras gripping the back of a wooden chair with both hands and Combeferre leaning against a kitchen table with his arms crossed, until Enjolras was called away by his boyfriend.

Enjolras rummaged around in his wallet and pulled out a creased business card. He held it out between his index finger and middle finger.

“This is where our group meets,” he explained. “If you feel like stopping by. You’d be more than welcome.”

"I'll think about it."

Enjolras shot him a smile that showed all his teeth. He lifted the back of his right hand in farewell as he walked away hand-in-hand with his boyfriend. Combeferre wandered back to Courfeyrac, feeling like he’d aced some kind of a test.

With a smirk, Courfeyrac announced that he wanted to pick out a bed first. Combeferre might have been surprised had he given any other answer.

As they maneuvered around furniture, dodging end tables and sofas on their way back to the bedroom section, Combeferre gathered together what little courage he had and spoke up. “Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac had been skipping a little bit ahead of him, but paused at hearing his name. “Yes?”

“Do you suppose – ?”

“Yes.” Courfeyrac agreed automatically, without even waiting to hear the rest of the answer. He seemed to be inclined to agree to just about anything.

“Great.” Combeferre sighed, already losing his nerve. It was probably too forward of him to ask Courfeyrac for his number so soon. He’d have to think of another way to get it.

He diverted his attention away from number-acquisition and tried to focus more on bed shopping. He diffused some of the tension by laughing at the names of the beds, which had way too many vowels in their names than should really be allowed.

As he watched Courfeyrac jump on to the fifth consecutive mattress and curl up on his side, Combeferre realized that this furniture shopping trip had somehow evolved into something akin to torture. Within the space of the last fifteen minutes, it had become painfully clear to him that the two of them had potential everywhere.

Every time Courfeyrac hopped on a bed, Combeferre kept seeing the two of them curled up together on it. He blinked quickly, wondering where the image had come from.

When he’d finally settled on a bed, Courfeyrac proceeded to try out all the furniture in the kitchen section. He pulled out all the chairs and then sat at the head of the table and suddenly all Combeferre could see was them setting all the places together as they waited for their friends to arrive. Strangely enough, the plates that Courfeyrac had been unpacking earlier that week ended up in the daydream.

All of it was enough to dampen his mood and make his chest ache, though he made a conscious effort to smile and offer input and encouragement. It was strange how he was feeling such a palpable sense of nostalgia for things that hadn’t even happened yet.

Nearly five hours later, Courfeyrac had gathered together all of his friends, Combeferre included, to help set up the furniture. The noise level crescendoed as more and more empty bottles of beer accumulated on the kitchen counter. Though he wouldn’t have admitted to Courfeyrac just then, furniture assembly wasn’t really his thing. He was better with living, breathing subjects.

But, as Combeferre had learned from experience in recent months and numerous shifts in the emergency room, it wouldn’t be an IKEA assembling party if someone didn’t end up getting hurt. There was no way the party could be over without cuts, splinters and a minor injury.

Combeferre was on his feet the moment he heard the crash from the living room, having anticipated its occurrence since the minute they began to unload the various cardboard boxes. Joly called it a type of premonition, but Combeferre liked to think of it as a strain of common sense.

One of Courfeyrac’s friends, who he had heard called Bossuet, was stuck under a pile of shelves. One of them had cracked in two, presumably when it had struck him on the head.

“Hold on,” Combeferre said gently. He didn’t want to make the damage any worse than it already was. He gestured to the people standing nearest to them, trying his best to cover up that he couldn’t keep their names straight quite yet. There were just _so many_ of them. “Probably best not to move. Help me lift this stuff off him?”

“That was a bit of bad luck,” Combeferre remarked as he crouched down on his knees to examine Bossuet’s head. He was in his element now.

“Tell me about it,” Bossuet replied with a sigh. He repeatedly insisted that he was fine, but Combeferre grew more concerned that the size of his pupils was not changing, especially considering the brightness of the room. Without a second thought, Combeferre offered a lift to the hospital. It seemed like he was always en-route to the hospital nowadays, even when it was supposed to be his day off.

“It couldn’t hurt to get it checked out, alright?” Combeferre reasoned as he offered him a hand up.

On their way downstairs, Combeferre made sure to page Joly. He hoped he’d done it early enough so that he’d be waiting in the ER to do a consult when they arrived.

To his immense credit, Courfeyrac sat stoically in the backseat of Combeferre’s car, holding Bossuet’s hand and offering reassurance the entirety of car ride.

Combeferre, ever the optimist, had every intention of sticking with them through the admitting process. But as soon as his resident noticed he was back and not out for the night, as was previously planned, he was dragged away to other things. That was always the way it was: even if you showed up at the hospital during your time off, you were put to work.

He managed to make his way back to the ER two hours later, but Bossuet had presumably been admitted and Courfeyrac was nowhere to be seen.

He texted Joly before heading back to work.

_i need a drink asap_

* * *

Both Combeferre and Joly managed to pay off another intern to cover the second half of their shift. But to make sure they could leave in good conscience, they also made sure to check in on Bossuet. Joly smiled as his eyes lit upon Bossuet, who was curled up on his side and snoring away in his hospital bed. Combeferre grabbed onto Joly’s shirt sleeve and didn’t let go until they were outside the sliding glass doors at the front of the hospital.

The barlights were turned down low by the time Joly and Combeferre managed to sneak off of work at one in the morning. They hurried inside, leaving the pavements slick with rain behind them. A rumble of thunder erupted as they pulled the door closed.

They traded small talk and gossip until the bartender passed them their drinks. Joly was considerate enough to at least wait until Combeferre had taken a few drinks of whiskey before asking about the date, even though he was anxious to know every detail. Concern was growing in the back of his mind that Combeferre’s lips remained tightly pursed.

Joly swished his scotch around in his mouth until it burned. He swallowed and followed the scorching sensation down his esophagus. “So, how’d it go?”

“Well… it didn’t end up being just us.” Combeferre pushed his glass around on the wood of the bar, rotating it in small circles so that its contents swished around. “His friends showed up and it was really weird.”

“Did you like his friends?”

Combeferre turned his head and squinted at Joly through the dim lighting of the bar. “A little bit, but that’s beside the point.”

“So, what is the point, then?” Joly wondered. He waved the bartender over and signaled for a refill of Combeferre’s glass.

Combeferre waited a moment while the thoughts formed in his head. Even though it was dark all around him, he felt like he was understanding some sentiment he had been feeling for days much more clearly now.

“I’ve seen you get hurt… And I’ve seen Jehan and Feuilly hurting because of someone. And I suppose I've been hurt, too,” he explained, pronouncing his words slowly. He was still staring straight down into his glass. He thought about trying to explain the tightness he felt in his chest and about the fear he had of losing something that he didn’t even have yet. But instead he asked, “What if I can’t handle it again?”

Joly didn’t hesitate to respond. “Combeferre, you can’t avoid getting hurt. It will happen. If not tomorrow, then three weeks from now. But if you’re asking yourself about the hurt, then you aren’t asking yourself the right question.”

“Really?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. He took a breath, the air puffing out his cheeks as he held it. He exhaled noisily. “So, what question should I be asking myself?”

“Ask yourself this.” Joly waited until Combeferre met his gaze. “Is this person worth the risk? Because there’s a chance this might be the worst decision you make in your entire life. But it also might be the best.”

Combeferre nodded once and then drained the contents of his glass in one swallow. Joly patted him on the back for good measure and finished in a solemn tone. “If you don’t think he’s worth it, then you need to get yourself out right now.”

And, even though it was still raining and the drops were cold as they ran down the sides of his face, Combeferre made sure to pull Joly into a hug and hold on for an extra moment before the two went their separate ways.


	5. Chapter 5

Combeferre groaned as his pager began to vibrate. It was Tuesday night, though not for much longer, and he had just gotten to sleep after his afternoon shift. His pager rattled along the edge of his nightstand and fell right off the edge, where it continued to dance on the carpet.

Combeferre stared straight up at the ceiling, even though he couldn’t see much of anything without his glasses. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away. Surprisingly, that strategy had never worked in the past. He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach, stretching out until his fingertips brushed against the pager. He silenced the notification and squinted to read the message.

Combeferre dialed Joly’s number and hit speakerphone while he traded his lounge pants for the first pair of scrubs that he managed to get his hands on. He switched on the bathroom light and audibly groaned at the sight of his green shirt and blue pants. He listened for the dial tone as he inputted the number again and searched for the matching set in his hamper. He was just tugging his shirt over his head when the call went through.

“’Ferre? Did you see my pages?” Combeferre grimaced as he heard Joly’s voice waver. It was his least favorite sound in the world.

“Yes, yes, I’m leaving right now,” he tucked his phone beneath his jaw and supported it with his shoulder. He grabbed his keys from the bowl near the front door and slipped on the nearest pair of shoes. He grabbed his phone from under his jaw as soon as the door was securely locked behind him.

“Are you okay? Wasn’t tonight supposed to be date night?” Combeferre asked as he hustled down the stairs. A jumble of incomprehensible sobs and words came from Joly’s end.

“Joly. Breathe,” Combeferre counseled. He shuddered as the wind hit him full force. A jacket probably would have been a good idea. “I want you to take a deep breath and then tell me what happened.”

He listened to the static on the other side of the line as hit speakerphone. He cranked his keys in the ignition and propped his phone up on the dashboard. He watched the call time light up the windshield. He stared at its reflection in the glass as the seconds ticked away.

It was another minute before Combeferre got the answer he had been waiting for. He stepped on the gas, pushing through a yellow light. It wasn’t the safest driving decision he’d ever made. _Desperate times,_ he reassured himself.

“We had a little accident,” Joly finally said. The call time on the phone reached seven minutes. “With flaming shots.”

Combeferre suppressed a laugh with limited success. He did his best to make it sound like a drawn-out groan. “Joly, how many times have we discussed your 'no open flame' policy?”

“But they looked amazing,” Joly protested. “And it wasn’t his fault… He tripped over the leg of a chair that wasn’t pushed in. He’s sitting here telling me that he’s had worse first dates.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve made quite the impression.” Combeferre took a corner too quickly and had to stretch his arm out to keep his phone from flying off the dashboard. “I’ll be there in a few, alright?”

“This is not good, ‘Ferre,” Joly said, not even attempting to mask the hysteria in his voice. Combeferre marveled that he could keep such a steady head amidst bleeding and complications in the operating room. He didn’t seem like the same person now. “It might even be third degree.”

“Keep taking those deep breaths we talked about, alright?” Combeferre replied. “I’m literally right around the corner.”

He whipped through the parking lot and hoped he parked somewhere remotely close to a parking spot. He figured that since there wasn’t anyone else here and there was still plenty of parking elsewhere, he’d be alright. As he jogged to the front door, he noticed at least two other cars parked much the same way he was. He wondered which one was Bossuet’s.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the sliding glass doors and shuddered to see his hair still half-sticking up and his glasses sitting crooked on the bridge of his nose. He crossed the nearly empty waiting room as Joly and his date rose from their seats. Joly had his right arm cradled to his chest.

“Hey, Bossuet,” Combeferre acknowledged him with a curt nod. “I can take it from here.”

Bossuet’s face was ashen and his normally bright eyes were sunken into his face. This would make it the second time in less than a week that Bossuet had found himself in this same waiting room. Combeferre felt sorry for him; the crappy fluorescent lighting in the ER made everyone look like hell.

Bossuet’s fingers brushed against Joly’s left bicep, lingering a second longer than strictly necessary on his shoulder. “Call me later? So I know you’re okay?”

Joly nodded and, to Combeferre’s amusement, proceeded to pinky swear on his promise to call Bossuet. The two of them watched together as Bossuet headed in the direction of the glass doors, only to stumble over his untied shoelaces. He waved his hand at them to signal that he was alright, but that only lasted until he went to move and noticed that he had conveniently tied both sets of laces together.

His face was burning bright red. Combeferre could have sworn that the slightest pink flush extended all the way to the bald spot on the top of his head. He stooped down again to retie his laces. The two silently watched until he disappeared through the sliding doors and was enveloped in darkness.

Combeferre turned back to Joly, trying once more to swallow a laugh. Joly would find this extremely comical when he wasn’t in so much pain.

“Come on,” Combeferre urged. He grasped the hand on Joly’s uninjured side and used it to guide him along the emergency room hallways that they both knew so well. The nurses at the admitting desk waved him back without another word. It took a few more minutes for them to find an empty exam room.

Combeferre made sure to engage Joly as he treated the burn, making sure he knew what would happen next before it actually happened. It turned out that it was only second-degree and extended about four inches on the top of his forearm. Nothing life-threatening.

“You’re going to be just fine,” Combeferre reassured him as he finished readjusting the bandage, checking for tightness and chafing.

“Thanks, ‘Ferre, I mean it.” Joly blinked slowly. His eyelids drooped and his shoulders sagged. Everything about him seemed to have wilted in the space of twenty minutes.

“Of course,” Combeferre replied. He gasped in mock horror. “Did you think I was just going to abandon you with the other interns?”

“No. Well, yes, since it took two pages to reach you.”

“Yeah, sorry. Worked this afternoon,” Combeferre shrugged. “In any case, you don’t seem to have picked up on the best part about this whole thing.”

Joly lifted his hand to stifle a yawn. “Do enlighten me.”

“I have three words for you, my friend.” Combeferre was silent for a moment, drawing out the suspense for his own amusement. A smile spread slowly across his face. “Flame-inspired puns.”

* * *

It was raining again as Combeferre and Joly headed back to Combeferre’s car. A brief flash of lightening brightened the sky and then plunged them back into the same darkness as before. Combeferre couldn't remember the last time they had seen so many thunderstorms as summer transitioned into fall.

“Nice parking,” Joly remarked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Combeferre merely rolled his eyes and flicked on his headlights. The two were quiet, content to listen to the rain splatter on the windshield and the slight squeak of the windshield wipers against the glass as Combeferre drove.

“So, was your heart set ablaze tonight?” Combeferre wondered.

Joly groaned and threw his head back against the seat melodramatically. “Oh god, you’re going to start this _right now_?”

“No. I was just curious about your reaction,” Combeferre replied. “Are you really going to go out with him again? Because you have every reason not to.”

“Rest assured, I’m going to rekindle the romance,” Joly said, not failing to notice the smile creeping back onto Combeferre’s face. He might have come off as aloof and intellectual, but Joly knew that man loved nothing more than a good pun. “You happy now?”

“You bet, hot stuff,” Combeferre shot back. “I’m done. I swear.”

To make up for earlier that night, Combeferre took care to park carefully within the lines of the parking space. It felt like he was putting some piece of the universe back in its proper place.

He followed Joly upstairs to the apartment, unashamedly helping himself to a pillow and a few blankets pulled out of the well-stocked hall closet. He couldn’t help but think that this was like med school all over again, minor injury and all.

He fell asleep listening to Joly murmuring into his phone through the cracked bedroom door. He might have been half-asleep but he didn’t miss the name “Bossuet” drifting out of the bedroom.

That boy really was helpless.

* * *

The next morning, Combeferre rose hours before Joly even considered rolling out of bed. He pulled out a pan as quietly as he could and treaded lightly around the kitchen as he sought the proper ingredients for pancakes. After brunch, he checked on the wound again and was pleased with its healing.

As soon as Joly had eaten and showered, they ventured out to retrieve the car he’d left at the bar last night. Joly honked at him twice as he pulled away.

Combeferre watched his car until it turned right at the stoplight and disappeared from sight.

The digital clock on his dashboard read two p.m. by the time he returned to his own apartment building. He trudged up the stairs to the second floor landing, too tired to even count the number of steps like he usually did.

He hesitated outside the door, his key extended in his hand, as he heard voices from inside the apartment.

He opened the door cautiously, lest it was a pair of chatty burglars who had managed to pick his lock while he was out. His eyes lit on Jehan cradling a cup of tea. He missed the first part of the sentence but he caught, “Oh, hello Combeferre.”

“Hello, people who don’t live here,” he replied. He was secretly pleased to see Courfeyrac lounging on the couch beside Jehan. There was no denying it now. Two of his worlds had collided.

“Hello.” Courfeyrac positively beamed as he raised his tea mug again. It was clearly Combeferre’s lucky day, as Courfeyrac was parked on his living room couch, his feet resting on the coffee table, and wearing that glorious jogging gear again. He was feeling a little weak in the knees just looking at him.

It was then that Combeferre became painfully aware of his own appearance. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said. He could have sworn he caught a whiff of his own sweat. He passed by the back of the couch on the way back to the bedroom and paused to squeeze Jehan on the shoulder. It was equal parts _be nice, I want to hit that_ and _good to see you._ “Please don’t tell him the story about the ducks.”

Courfeyrac seemed to perk up. “Ducks? What story, what ducks?”

Combeferre pitied him and almost felt compelled to tell him. The feeling quickly passed.

Combeferre returned from his shower to the unexpected news that Courfeyrac had decided to stay for dinner. It was a small consolation to Combeferre that it was only blueberry noodle night. That was one of the least unorthodox concoctions in Jehan’s arsenal.

Though they didn’t let on to Courfeyrac, this arrangement was quite common for Jehan and Combeferre. Often, after double shifts, Jehan would come over and cook since Combeferre simply wouldn't be able to muster up the energy to cook something decent. But Courfeyrac didn’t have to know that yet. Instead, they stuck to reminiscing about university shenanigans.

“Yes, Joly’s always been a slightly strange one,” Jehan trailed off yet another anecdote after Courfeyrac had asked after Bossuet. “Heart of gold, though.”

“Oh yes, he’s a dear one,” Combeferre inputted. “I hear he and your friend – Bossuet, Lesgles? I couldn’t quite figure it out – are going out again tomorrow night.” He wasn’t sure which one was right because Joly had used both on the phone the night before.

“Again?” Courfeyrac arched an eyebrow. For some reason that Combeferre couldn’t begin to fathom, he almost looked disappointed. Almost.

“Yes, apparently their first date was quite… enlightening,” Combeferre shrugged. Were fire puns enjoyable if there wasn’t a Joly around to hear them?

“They’re so sweet,” Jehan added, scooping more food onto his plate. Combeferre was preoccupied in listening to the scrape of his fork against the plates and watching Courfeyrac scoop another forkful into his mouth that he hardly noticed the change in subject. “How about you, Courf – anyone in your life at the moment?”

Since it wouldn’t be proper to actually facepalm right then, Combeferre mentally facepalmed. Why did Jehan have to be so direct? With a start, Combeferre realized that he hadn’t even had a chance to tell Jehan about the whole IKEA disaster yet. This was not going to end well.

Courfeyrac swallowed and suddenly became very interested in the remainder of food on his plate. Combeferre didn’t think that it was a good sign that he wouldn’t make eye contact.

_Please don’t be straight, please don’t be straight,_ Combeferre chanted in his head. Been there, done that.

“Not at present, unfortunately,” Courfeyrac said, choosing his words carefully.

Jehan pressed further, even though Combeferre wanted nothing more than for him to stop. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Nope.” Combeferre was still looking across the table at Courfeyrac when he finally lifted his head and smiled. That seemed favorable enough.

“We’ll have to set you up with someone!” Jehan beamed, his eyes flickering briefly to Combeferre. A string of curse words sounded in Combeferre’s head.

“Ha, no. I’m actually…” Heartbroken? Not interested? He hesitated and Combeferre could feel his heart rate picking up. What was it? “Taking a break from dating. New building, fresh start – you know?”

_Oh._ Silence settled uncomfortably at the table.

“I see,” Jehan said. And that was that.

Combeferre cleared his throat and stood up. He flinched as the legs of his chair scraped against the hardwood. He made a mental note to pick up some floor protector pads when he went out again because that screeching noise was unacceptable.

“Dishes?” He asked, the pitch of his voice slightly higher than he wanted it to be. “Jehan, can I see you in the kitchen?”

Courfeyrac stared down at his lap and picked at a hangnail. He turned, like he was about to say something and then evidently changed his mind.

Combeferre set the plates down. They clattered as they hit the bottom of the sink. He turned to Jehan, his eyes already burning with the first hint of tears. Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, the tears would go away. But the odds were not in his favor because he hadn’t slept in two days and he was worried about his injured friend and this other friend seemed to be shirking away from anything romantic. Was it too much to ask for _one thing_ to go right?

Jehan rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said anything.”

Combeferre swallowed and hoped that Courfeyrac didn’t have abnormally good hearing. He took a deep breath and tried to reign in his emotions.

“Now what am I going to do?” Combeferre wasn’t sure if he was asking himself or if he was asking Jehan. Or both. Either way, he wasn’t expecting an answer. Though he wasn't going to say it out loud, he knew a person like Courfeyrac was worth a bit of hard work. He wasn't about to let whatever it was that they did have slip away so easily.

Jehan stepped around him and turned on the faucet to fill the sink with warm water. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and wiped down the first dish. He turned back around. Soap suds clung to his hands. He was unsurprised that Combeferre hadn’t budged an inch.

“Don’t worry.” Jehan reached for the next plate and submerged it in the water. As soon as the dish water settled, he said, “We’re going to figure something out.”


	6. Chapter 6

Combeferre consulted his watch as he jogged up the stairs to the apartment Feuilly shared with Jehan, hoping that he’d be able to catch Feuilly in between shifts. He passed the elevator on the second floor, eyeing the yellow caution tape and the sign that indicated it was closed for repairs with suspicion as he continued on to the third floor.

Combeferre trained his eyes on the humming light fixture adjacent to Feuilly’s door and readjusted his grip on the paper bag he had brought with him. The entirety of the apartment building was unnaturally still around him; there was no rap music playing at obnoxious levels and no sign of the crying baby that lived two floors above Feuilly’s flat. The rustling bag was the only sound in a hallway normally teeming with odd assortments of voices and music.

The light bulb flickered rapidly and blew out in its fixture. Combeferre flinched and instinctively took a couple steps backward. Feuilly pulled open the door then, cupping a small glass of what looked like gin in the palm of his left hand. 

“Hey," Feuilly greeted. 

Combeferre's mouth twitched and he struggled to keep the frown off his face. Feuilly’s overgrown hair was slick with grease and clung to the sides of his head. He hadn’t even bothered to pull it back out of his eyes. He side-stepped to give Combeferre enough room to pass by him.

Combeferre hunched down in the dimly lit hallway. Jehan’s cat was rubbing against his shins in greeting.

“Hey, Percy,” he cooed. His fingers lightly traced the cat’s spine, following a trail of orange fur with flecks of black in it. Behind him, the deadbolt needed some persuasion before Feuilly could get it to click shut.

“Want something to drink?” Feuilly asked as he headed back to the kitchen. Combeferre figured that he must have gotten home not too long ago; he hadn’t even had a chance to take his shoes off yet.

“No, but thank you. Gin’s never been a favorite,” Combeferre explained. The cat trailed along on his heels. He set the paper bag on the counter and pulled out the pint of ice cream. He opened a drawer too quickly and it squeaked in protest. He helped himself to a spoon. The first one he pulled out still had something dried to it, but the second looked clean enough. 

“Suit yourself,” Feuilly replied. He topped off his glass in one smooth pour, his fingers leaving smudges on the neck of the bottle.

“Jehan’s out again?” Combeferre asked as leaned against the countertop. The edge poked into his side. Percy leapt onto the counter and threaded his way around the variety of potted plants and cacti scattered there. 

“Closing up the shop tonight,” he confirmed. Combeferre lamented the fact that he'd driven right by the florist shop on his way home and didn't think to stop in. He pushed the ice cream carton closer to Feuilly. Though Feuilly wasn’t cognizant of it, it was Combeferre’s way of reciprocating Jehan’s kindness. That, and he wanted to make sure Feuilly actually remembered to eat once in a while.

Feuilly nodded in acknowledgement of Combeferre’s offering and took a long swallow of his drink. “How’s the hospital?”

“A little dark, a little gloomy.” Combeferre shrugged. “And, as always, full of sick people.”

Feuilly narrowed his eyes and he regarded Combeferre with suspicion. The slightest hint of a smile appeared on his face. “That sounded like a _Hercules_ reference to me.”

“It was thinly veiled and slightly modified, but yes.” Combeferre pushed off the counter and offered out the spoon. He'd paged Joly with an urgent message around eight the night before, just as the opening song was playing. When he skidded into the room, his face red from speed-walking up the stairs, Combeferre merely held his finger to his lips. He silently pointed to the drowsy child next to him and the Disney movie in front of him. It took all of three seconds for Joly to drag over another chair. 

“You are such a nerd.”

“Thanks!" Combeferre said brightly. He always chose to accept it as a compliment. 

Feuilly scoffed and headed over to the two-seater couch in the living room, the pint of ice cream in one hand and the spoon in the other. Combeferre tailed on his heels and sank down next to him. This particular couch wasn’t one of his favorites; it always felt like he was sinking to the bottom of it when he sat down. But Feuilly loved it and that’s all that mattered.

Combeferre focused on the stretch of wall in front of the couch. It was decorated with a cluster of three prints. Though they were nice and broke up the monotony of the eggshell-colored walls, Combeferre had to admit that they paled in comparison to the prints that he’d seen in Courfeyrac’s apartment. Not that he was going to say any of that out loud. It was an unfair comparison.

Feuilly was absorbed in chipping away at the top layer of the still-frozen chocolate ice cream. Combeferre, unfortunately, did not possess the same gift with ice cream that Jehan did. Now Feuilly was going to have to fight with it in order to enjoy it. 

“So. How’re you doing?” Combeferre inquired.

“Alright. But you might want to ask me again later. I didn't particularly want to work a double tonight, but someone's out.”

“Another double shift?” Combeferre repeated. “Isn’t that the third time this week?”

Feuilly stuck a spoonful in his mouth and took a moment to savor it. “The rent doesn’t pay itself,” he said around the spoon. He swallowed and then continued. “And I’m actually trying to save up a bit.”

“Oh?” Combeferre readjusted himself on the couch. He attempted to sit up but ended up sinking further down into the cushions.

“Yeah. I haven’t gotten around to telling you, have I?” Color rushed to his face until his cheeks very nearly matched the reddish shade of his hair. He was blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. Combeferre held his tongue, knowing he'd receive a swift punch to the arm if he pointed it out. “I’ve met someone. And I’d like to take him out someplace nice. Hence, the necessity of extra cash.”

Combeferre readjusted his glasses and tried to keep from smiling too widely. He’d suspected something had been going on with Feuilly and was relieved that this was the explanation. The combination of defensiveness and aloofness that he'd been prone to lately was making a lot more sense. “Tell me about him. Please?”

Feuilly pretended to consider the request as he sucked some more ice cream off his spoon.

"Please?" Combeferre said again for good measure.  
  
“Extremely tall. Dashing. Part of a student activist group. That’s all you’re gonna get.”

Something tugged at the back of Combeferre’s mind. The pieces of a puzzle were falling together. How many different student activist groups could there be in this area, really?

“Do they meet at the Musain?” he ventured to ask.

“That’s it,” Feuilly confirmed, his amber eyes brightening. “You know them?”

“I’m headed to one of their meetings after this,” he admitted. “So, which one is he? I have to fulfill my role as your friend by scoping him out.”

A motorcycle tore through the street outside of Feuilly’s building. A door slammed a floor above them and the ceiling creaked under the weight of footsteps. Percy jumped up between them, sinking his claws into the material of the couch.

“Bahorel,” Feuilly said slowly. He reached out to scratch Percy’s head. He tried not to smile but he was unsuccessful. “His name is Bahorel.”

“Noted.”

The two lapsed into silence. Neither one moved to pull the blinds closed. Instead, they continued to watch the space in front of them as the sun set, sending shadows arching across the wall.

* * *

 

It took Combeferre twenty minutes and three wrong turns to locate the Musain. It was nestled in the curved junction that connected two parallel streets. He was certain that if he hadn’t been so adamant to find it, he wouldn’t have even noticed it was there.

He blinked and squinted, his eyes painfully slow to adapt to the low lighting in the bar. When he could see again, he was surprised to find quite a few sets of eyes trained on him. He felt a split-second of fear as he wondered if this group was already too well melded to even consider welcoming a newcomer. But his desire to honor his commitment to Enjolras to come outweighed his urge to turn around and leave. 

He forced himself to keep walking forward, encouraged by the sight of Courfeyrac smiling and waving him over. Another incentive to stay. 

“Hello,” he said as he approached their table, which was nestled in the back corner of the nearly deserted bar. He waved hesitantly and then stopped himself. “Sorry, am I late?”

Enjolras stood and stuck his hand out for Combeferre to shake. “Not at all. We haven’t even started yet.”  
  
He received other greetings from people he didn’t know yet and quite a few pats on the back. He recognized most of them from the furniture building party, but he still wasn’t able to keep all their names straight. Maybe one day he'd be able to tell them apart.

Nearly ten minutes had passed before Combeferre realized he hadn’t even gotten around to taking off his coat. He shed his coat and his scarf and draped them over the back of a vacant chair. He pressed his clammy palms to his cheeks, slightly surprised at how warm they had gotten. He slid into an empty booth seat after Enjolras.

“What’s on the agenda for the evening?” Combeferre wondered. “Oh! I found you blog, by the way, and I’m fascinated by your ideals.”  
  
Enjolras met his gaze and nodded for him to continue. Combeferre chose his words carefully. “But your – um – execution could use a little improvement.”

He hoped he hadn’t come off as rude. He didn’t want to be the guy who waltzed in and wanted to change everything. Nobody liked _that guy_. But there was definitely room for improvement, especially where the group’s rhetoric was concerned. 

Combeferre paid close attention to the proceedings of the meeting. He perked up as Enjolras gestured to Bahorel to give some kind of report. The whole time he was talking, Combeferre tried to see him through Feuilly’s eyes. After a few minutes, he came to the conclusion that Feuilly was right; Bahorel was very tall and definitely dashing.

Combeferre stole a glance at Courfeyrac as Bahorel finished his report and edged back into a booth. In his eyes was a kind of intensity that Combeferre couldn’t quite place.

He couldn’t deny that Courfeyrac’s presence was at least fifty percent of his reason for showing up tonight. Forty percent consisted of his desire to actually fight for the cause and share his insider knowledge on health care reform. Ten percent was pure curiosity. Courfeyrac’s words echoed in Combeferre’s head and he fought the urge to frown.

 _I’m taking a break from dating._ Like Jehan had pointed out, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. That was the whole point of this little excursion. To show him that he was interested and wanted to be a part of his friend group.

Through the course of the meeting, he also learned that Bossuet was an active member and part of the legal team, meaning Joly would be most definitely there sooner or later anyway. Combeferre figured it was only a matter of time. He resolved to bring Jehan and Joly with him next week and possibly Feuilly if he had the time. He could use some back up. To his surprise, the added benefit was that voicing his interest in bringing new recruits further solidified his place within the group.

Courfeyrac led the way back out of the bar, his friends following him in groups of twos and threes. He paused to prop the door with his foot, smiling and saying goodbye to everyone as they filed out and dispersed onto the streets. From inside, there was a vague shout about letting out all the heat. 

He finally let the door close after the last two people. Enjolras was still going on about something, and Combeferre kept listening as he knotted his scarf around his neck. He buttoned his coat up to his throat. Enjolras was still talking. 

Courfeyrac loitered by the curb. Combeferre tried to take a stealthy look at the time on his phone. He burrowed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. 

The next thing he knew, Courfeyrac was looping his arm through the crook of his elbow. He smiled at both of them as Enjolras paused to take a breath.    
  
”We’ll pick it up next week, yeah?” Courfeyrac said lightly.

"Yeah." Enjolras nodded. "Sorry! I get a little carried away by these things sometimes. But thank you for coming. Really."

"Course," Combeferre managed to say. Both he and Courfeyrac watched as Enjolras took off, walking straight and then rounding a corner a couple of blocks away. "Thanks for jumping in."

"Don’t mention it."

Combeferre deeper burrowed into his coat as the wind picked up. He and Courfeyrac were the only ones left now. They stood near the curb, still arm-in-arm, waiting for the taxi. It was Courfeyrac’s idea to split the fare.

Combeferre decided to voice something that had been bothering him since he first time he spoke at the meeting. “I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.”

Courfeyrac blinked at him, as if he hadn’t understood. “What?”

The two of them stood under the light of the streetlamp. Combeferre glanced up at it and then back at Courfeyrac. From this angle, he could see all the ridges and planes of Courfeyrac’s face and could count every freckle. He wanted to commit them all to memory, but now was not the time.

“I think I may have gotten a little carried away.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, his expression incredulous. He finally pulled away his arm. “You were brilliant. Honestly. They loved you.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. He tried not to think about how much he missed that arm now that it was gone. “Really?”

“Definitely.”

Combeferre held Courfeyrac’s gaze. _New building, fresh start. Taking. A. Break. From. Dating._

Combeferre dropped his eyes to his feet and then looked at the bus stop across the road. At this distance, he couldn’t quite make out what it was advertising, but at least it was something else to look at.

When he looked up again, Courfeyrac’s face was screwed up in thought. For a second, Combeferre thought he was going to ask something but he grimaced and changed his mind.

“God, I’m tired… cannot be dealing with work tomorrow.” Combeferre lifted his hand to stifle a yawn. Between shifts and hanging out with Feuilly, the tiredness hadn’t really settled in until he was finally standing still.

“You’re working again?” Courfeyrac repeated in a way that felt eerily similar to his earlier conversation with Feuilly. Who had Combeferre been kidding, trying to call Feuilly out on his multiple double shifts in a single week? He was just as bad. He sent a mental apology to Feuilly for being such a hypocrite.

“Not a double, thankfully. Just a short afternoon shift,” Combeferre explained. Just an afternoon shift to get through before he had a whole day completely free. He internally rejoiced.

“Then you should be asleep! You must be knackered.”

Combeferre folded his arms across his chest. He turned his head to yawn into his scarf, hoping Courfeyrac wouldn’t notice it. 

Courfeyrac's frown deepened. “You didn’t have to come this evening.”

“I wanted to.” Combeferre was much more honest in his head.  _I wanted to see you._ He stole a glance at Courfeyrac, curious as to the reaction.   
  
 Courfeyrac bumped Combeferre’s shoulder with his arm. “I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.” Combeferre could swear that his shoulder was humming with energy from the contact.

The wind was picking up around them, making Combeferre's hair flop into his eyes. He chewed on his lip, still feeling the heat of Courfeyrac’s gaze on the side of his face. It was times like these that made him wonder why Courfeyrac had said those things at dinner because he was giving all the usual signs that he was interested. Either he was lying or overly flirty with all his friends. Or both. Combeferre suppressed the urge to groan in frustration. His fingers itched to shoot off a text to Jehan.  

 _Why_ wouldn’t Courfeyrac just ask him out already and get it over with? What on earth was he waiting for?


	7. Chapter 7

Even though Combeferre found his job to be difficult and exhausting most of the time, there were a few perks that made it worth his while. Occasionally, he had the opportunity to diagnose tricky cases and other times he found interactions with his patients to be rewarding and inspiring. Those were all well and good, but the one thing that he had come to look forward to during in his short time at the hospital were the days when one of the wings would be closed, either because overall capacity was low or because it needed repairs.

Today was one such day – the western ward on the third floor was temporarily shut due to recent reports concerning number of occupied beds within the hospital. Perhaps if he were younger or more naïve, Combeferre might have found a way to utilize the empty wing for productive purposes. He could’ve used the quiet hallways to contemplate the diagnoses he couldn’t quite put his finger on, or perhaps he could’ve taken advantage of the desolate lounge to tackle his ever-growing mountain of paperwork. But all of that would’ve been much too responsible, even by Combeferre’s standards.

The elevator dinged, the digital displays lit up with a large number three on both sides of the doors. The doors slid open with a squeaking noise. Combeferre stepped out into the half-lit hallway. He paused for a moment to stow his backpack safely behind the desk at the nurses’ station. He could hear the excited chatter from around the corner as he stooped down to retie his shoelaces.

He straightened and readjusted his glasses. He rounded the corner and couldn’t keep the ridiculous smile off of his face. At the opposite end of the hall, two empty gurneys were aligned next to each other. Plain white sheets were tucked neatly beneath white pillows. Joly stood next to the one on the right-hand side, stretching his arms above his head.

Combeferre jogged down the hall. He lifted his hand in greeting to the people aligned on the left side of the wall, taking note of all the decent people rooting for him today. One of the blonde male interns wearing black radiology scrubs waved shyly at him as he passed. Combeferre kept on walking, catching Joly’s eye in the process.

“You aren’t going to win this time,” Combeferre said as he approached.

Joly shook his head, unimpressed. “I really need to teach you how to trash talk.”

For the benefit of the crowd, Combeferre widened his stance and then strained to touch his toes, only to discover that he wasn’t as flexible as he’d once been. All the late-night snacking during med school had caught up to him. He was a few inches short of touching his toes.

Combeferre stood up much too quickly and ended up with black spots in his vision. He blinked rapidly, watching as they cleared. He turned to say something to Joly, but the words died on his lips. Bossuet was walking toward them from the direction of the lounge. He had a chilled water bottle in his left hand, which he held out to Joly.

Joly gave him a quick peck on the lips and accepted it. “You’re the best,” he said, beaming at Bossuet. He noticed that Combeferre was watching them with his arms crossed over his chest. “What?”

“I’m a bit envious of your cheering section, honestly,” Combeferre admitted. He couldn’t suppress an amused laugh as Bossuet crouched down in front of a backpack that had been propped up against the wall. He stood up and proudly displayed the foam finger now on his hand. It was purple, Joly’s favorite color, and backwards at first. He hastily fixed it so that the white #1 was facing the right way.

"Your time will come," Joly reassured him with a gentle pat on his shoulder.

Combeferre felt a slight pang of jealousy. He wondered if Courfeyrac would be down for cheering him on at one of these things. Oh, who was he kidding? Courfeyrac would want a go on the gurney first.

With the help of his driver, a tough as nails nurse from the oncology ward, Combeferre climbed onto the top of the gurney. He cranked his head over his shoulder to address her.

“Best of luck, Nat,” he said. He raised his hand to his temple and saluted her. Meanwhile, Bossuet kissed three fingers and turned his hand out, _Hunger Games_ -style. Joly solemnly returned the gesture as one of his surgical cronies stepped up to push him. And herein was where the high stakes of the game manifested itself: it was the ultimate face-off between the medical interns and the surgical interns. Reputations were at stake here.

Combeferre bent his knees to brace himself and maneuvered into the proper gurney surfing posture: hands outstretched at his side and his knees bent slightly. He kept his center of gravity low, already anticipating the two places where he’d have to duck so that he wouldn’t smack his head against one of the informational signs suspended from ceiling.

One of the ER nurses waved around a bright red scrub top, which was standing in as a flag, about ten feet in front of them. She promptly dove out of the way as the gurneys rolled down the hall and the cheering began.

Combeferre watched Joly pass him out of the corner of his eye but didn’t let it phase him. He still had a reasonably long stretch of hallway to catch up. He crouched down, keeping his weight anchored in the soles and heels of his feet. Both of them passed the first information sign and turned the corner without incident.

He sensed Joly’s literal and metaphoric downfall before it actually happened. Nat was still pushing Combeferre with the same pace, proving to be as steady and dependable as always. The surgeon pushing Joly was still looking straight forward when Joly craned his head over his shoulder to gauge his lead. That was his fatal flaw.

The noise in the crowd dropped to a hush. They waited for the moment of impact with gasps and widened eyes. Combeferre passed a nurse who was anxiously chewing on her fingernails. 

Joly only had seconds to respond. He ducked at the last minute and managed to miss most of it, but the slight impact of the sign as it scraped the top of his head was enough to upset his balance. He sank down and gripped the edges of the gurney with a scowl.

"Not on fire today, are you?" Combeferre couldn't resist. He raced past Joly and stood up all the way, triumphant, as he and Nat reached the end of the hallway. This victory more than made up for the one time Combeferre had managed to smack his face against both signs and ended up smashing a relatively new pair of glasses. Combeferre hopped off the gurney and held out his hand in reconciliation as Joly finally finished. Joly shook reluctantly.

“Do you have a concussion?” Combeferre asked, searching for blood on Joly’s forehead and in his hairline. He looked disgruntled but thankfully unscathed.

“No. But I’m going to regroup and then we’re going to have a rematch.”

“Deal,” Combeferre said with a nod. Bossuet was just making his way to the finish line, still sporting the purple foam finger.

Combeferre's phone began to vibrate in the back pocket of his jeans. He could’ve sworn he’d left it in his backpack. He listened to Bossuet talking softly to Joly a few feet away, assuring him that he’d win next time, as he answered the call from Jehan. Combeferre pretended not to hear Joly tell Bossuet that he could think of a few things that would make him feel better.

“Jehan? You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” Jehan said with a laugh. Combeferre could see the way Jehan’s eyes lit up when he laughed. He wished he was there to see it. “I’m not allowed to call?”

“You usually text. Must be important,” Combeferre reasoned. He glanced up. Joly was now perched on the edge of the gurney, his arms hooked around Bossuet’s neck as he kissed him. Combeferre resisted the impulse to nudge it and send it rolling.

“What’re you doing right now?” Jehan wondered. Combeferre heard a muffled goodbye and the sound of a door slamming shut in the background.

“I’m at the hospital. Why?”

Jehan hesitated. Combeferre knew he was frowning, even though he couldn’t actually see him. There was static in the line for a second and then it resolved. “Didn’t you take the day off?”

“Your point is?” Combeferre was resigned to the fact that he was always at the hospital for some reason or another, regardless of whether or not he was actually scheduled to work.

“ _Listen_ , this is of vital importance,” Jehan said, his voice turning suddenly serious. “I saw Cute Jogger at the park with some of his friends on my way back from the shop. Wanna go check it out with me?”

Combeferre exhaled slowly and tried to wipe away the stupid grin on his face. He turned to tell Joly about the exciting turn of events, only to discovered that he and Bossuet had disappeared.

“Jehan, have I ever told you how great of a friend you are?”

* * *

Jehan was lounging on Combeferre’s couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table, when Combeferre hurried through the door. At noticing the trajectory of Combeferre’s gaze, Jehan gestured to the shoulder bag tucked into his side and said, “We need a plausible motive.”

“You make it sound like we’re committing a murder or something,” Combeferre said as he kicked off his shoes. He hastened into his bedroom to change out of his scrubs and into something more suitable for spending time outdoors. He picked out a pair of jeans and a striped crew shirt that he was particularly fond of. He propped a pair of aviators on the top of his head for safekeeping until they were outside.

“Does it look like I’m trying too hard?” he wondered. He turned around in a slow circle in front of the couch so Jehan could get the full effect of the outfit.

“Nah. Looks good.” Jehan braced his hands on his knees and stood up. He shouldered his bag. “The chukka boots are a nice touch.”

“Figured they’d look better than some old trainers,” Combeferre said. The boots were also a size too small and chafed uncomfortably against his toes. But it was a price he was willing to pay.

Jehan lingered on the stairs as Combeferre locked the door behind them. When Combeferre rejoined him, he asked, “What were you doing at the hospital, anyway?”

“Helping Joly with something,” Combeferre said. He wasn’t sure where Jehan would stand on the whole idea of gurney racing; some people were vehemently against it as a waste of time, while others swore by it. The nurses especially were fiercely competitive.

It only took them ten minutes to make their way over to the park, most of which Jehan spent discussing their strategy. “By the way, I invited Joly and Bossuet along. Who knows if they’ll actually show up. But if they do, we won’t look as suspicious.”

They walked through the outer edge of the park, their shoes sinking into the grass. Combeferre could’ve sworn he heard his name called from somewhere nearby. He craned his head to figure out where it came from.

“Over there,” Combeferre’s gaze honed in on Courfeyrac and he nudged Jehan. He was with Eponine, who he remembered from their first awkward meeting in Courfeyrac’s apartment and at the furniture building party. The younger kid with them he didn’t recognize. True to his word, Jehan managed to point out where Joly and Bossuet were wrapped around each other on a blanket off in the distance.

Combeferre felt a familiar tightness in his chest and a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach. Courfeyrac was wearing a simple racerback vest and denim shorts and _good lord_ he could see so much skin. Combeferre tried his best not to openly stare at his arms, but his eyes were drawn to them like a magnet.

"Yep. This is way better than gurney surfing,” Combeferre said with a contented sigh. This outfit combined with his victory over Joly proved that the universe was feeling especially kind toward him today.

“Gurney surfing?” Jehan repeated slowly. “That’s what you were doing on your day off?”

Combeferre kept his expression neutral but didn’t offer an answer. He was fully prepared to throw Joly under the bus if Jehan felt like pushing the issue. They closed the remainder of the distance in silence.

“Fancy seeing you here!” Jehan said, positively beaming. He bounced on the balls of his feet and Combeferre had a brief flashback of Courfeyrac standing outside of his apartment, bouncing in a similar way. He had no doubt that Courfeyrac and Jehan would get along when they’d had more of a chance to get to know each other.

Jehan produced a Frisbee from his bag, just like he told Combeferre he would. Stage two of their plan was now in effect. “We’re going to play Frisbee if you’re interested? Throwback to college, seeing as it’s such a nice day?” Jehan explained. 

The unknown teenager scrambled to his feet, happily consenting to the game.

“Joly and Bossuet are over there. We’re going to join them,” Jehan explained. Combeferre hardly heard him speaking. He was still focused on the task of tearing his gaze away from Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac twisted around to look over his shoulder in the direction that Jehan had pointed to and then pulled himself up. A beat too late Combeferre realized that he should have held out his hand to help him stand. Blades of grass fluttered to the ground as Courfeyrac brushed off the back of his jeans.

“C’mon then, let’s play Frisbee!” Courfeyrac lead the foray toward Joly and Bossuet. Combeferre trailed behind him with Jehan, thoroughly enjoying the view. 

Jehan snorted as he realized what Combeferre was doing. “You’re hopeless,” was all he said.

* * *

The game of Frisbee grew more intricate and more involved as time passed. They managed to rope in their entire group of friends, along with some random strangers who'd been loitering on the sidelines. They also added a few more Frisbees to make thing interesting.

At one point, Combeferre ducked out to take a drink out of the water bottle that Jehan had so thoughtfully brought with him and realized that they had monopolized the entirety of the grassy area with their game. 

Soon after that break, Bossuet tripped over a sprinkler head and fell flat on his face. In a series of events that surprised no one, Joly jogged over, offered him a hand up and ushered him to the sidelines. When Combeferre looked over again, they were cuddled together watching the game. 

At first, the whole point of tossing the Frisbee around had been to keep it as lax as possible. But as soon as Enjolras showed up, everyone seemed to focus more on strategic plays. Enjolras and Feuilly become fast friends that way, their heads tipped together and conspiratorial whispers exchanged as they plotted their next move.

The end of the game was looming. Enjolras’ and Feuilly’s team were trapped behind a line of Jehan and Combeferre’s defenses with nowhere else to go. Courfeyrac was on standby somewhere behind them in case they needed to tackle someone. Combeferre heard Grantaire offer to make a sacrifice for the team – to risk himself and run the Frisbee in a crazed sprint to the finish. All they needed was one point to break the tie.

“That’s a suicide mission,” Enjolras said with a shake of his head. “I can’t let you go. Too much of a chance.”

And, in one incredible move that ended the game, Feuilly snatched the Frisbee out of Enjolras’ hands, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. Bahorel promptly came plowing through the defensive line. Before anyone could even consider tackling him down, he slung Feuilly over his shoulder, dodged the entirety of the opposing team, and ran to the safety of the goal area. Courfeyrac groaned and promptly fell to the ground in defeat.

Combeferre was too impressed by the turn of events to be sore at losing. Besides, Joly was on the winning team, despite not having helped much at all. It seemed to be retribution for his loss earlier that day.

Enjolras pulled Grantaire into a victory hug as Bahorel set Feuilly safely down onto his feet. They both proceeded to perform an explicit series of movements, which involved an excessive amount of grinding. Combeferre figured it was their victory dance. Combeferre watched from afar as Jehan helped Courfeyrac to his feet again. He felt strangely light as he observed them.   
  
And, for just a moment, he couldn’t believe that there was a time in his life when his group of friends had existed in any other way.


	8. Chapter 8

Combeferre joined the congregation in the kitchen of Courfeyrac’s apartment after the official ending of the Frisbee game. Grantaire was perched on one of the countertops, his knees bracketing Enjolras’ body from behind. Feuilly and Bahorel stood together in the doorway, Feuilly’s left hand tucked into one of the back pockets of Bahorel’s jeans. Joly sat on Bossuet’s lap on the couch in the living room, blatantly disregarding the two other open spots on the sofa.

Combeferre peered over Jehan’s shoulder at Courfeyrac’s iPhone, which was set up in the middle of the breakfast bar and playing music at full volume. It was pitiful; the music hardly reached the living room. Courfeyrac sighed melodramatically and lamented being unable to locate his speakers in the remainder of the boxes, most of which were still sitting half-opened in his bedroom.

“This won’t do. I think it’s time to break out the big guns,” Combeferre decided. He exchanged a pointed look with Jehan, who was no doubt laughing because Combeferre might have been the only person alive who still used that phrase unironically.

Combeferre hastened back to his apartment to dig through his closet, leaving his door propped open behind him. He had to dislodge several stacks of novels and outdated textbooks before he found what he was looking for. He returned to his living room with a subwoofer tucked beneath his arm, only to be confronted with the sight of Jehan and Joly waiting for him. His eyes flicked over to the door, which was now closed all the way.

“This looks like trouble,” Combeferre said slowly. Joly took his arm and drew him over to one side of the room, even though there was no one else in the apartment that they had to avoid. Jehan lingered nearby as Joly released his arm.

Without prelude Joly asked, “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“Why wouldn't I be?" Combeferre asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. He shifted the subwoofer beneath his arm and readjusted his grip on it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an occasion to drag it out. If he had to guess, it was probably sometime in between when his acceptance letter to med school arrived and the day when he actually started classes.

“Look, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but something strange is going on in there,” Jehan said, crossing his arms over his chest. The sides of his neck were sunburned bright red. Joly nodded in agreement, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Something strange,” Combeferre repeated.

“Every time he looks your way - " Joly began.  
  
Jehan was quick to interrupt. "And by 'he,' we mean Courfeyrac," he clarified.  
  
"Right." Joly continued on, unperturbed. "As I was saying, every time he sets his eyes on you, all his other friends look at each other like they’re in on some kind of secret. I tried asking Bossuet about it, but he claims he doesn’t know anything. I don't like it.”

“Doesn’t sit right with me either,” Jehan added.

“I can’t say I’ve noticed,” Combeferre admitted.

“Well, be careful tonight, alright? We both know that weird things can happen at parties,” Joly said. "Might I direct your memory to The Tequila Incident?"  
  
Combeferre was silent for a moment. "Point taken," he said with a small sigh.   
  
Jehan looked back and forth quickly between the two of them. "How come I haven't heard about that one?" he whined.   
  
Joly rolled his eyes and gave Jehan a light slap on the arm. Combeferre could've sworn Joly muttered something something under his breath, but he didn't quite catch it.  
  
The three headed out of the apartment together but lingered for another moment outside of Courfeyrac's door. The number of people grown from about ten to twenty five in the time they had been gone. Joly reached out to give Combeferre’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “We just don’t want you to get burned, okay? That's all.”

Combeferre’s eyes brightened. “I think you’ve already taken care of that for me,” he said with a smile.   
  
"Learn from my mistakes," Joly said as Jehan gestured with his hands for Combeferre to just _go inside already._

“I come bearing gifts,” Combeferre announced to the living room. Courfeyrac’s head popped out of the kitchen expectantly. He was quick to compliment the speakers.

“These are so awesome!” Courfeyrac gushed. Combeferre waited in the living room as he went to retrieve his iPhone. While they were setting up the system, Courfeyrac informed him that the party was Facebook official and that Bahorel and Grantaire would be back shortly with the alcohol.

The volume of the party fluctuated as people came and went as they pleased. At one point, Combeferre lost track of Jehan and ended up back in the kitchen, cradling a bottle of beer. He propped the breakfast bar with Grantaire, happy to talk about art for a while. Grantaire’s words were the slightest bit slurred, but Combeferre couldn’t tell if it was because of how passionately he was speaking or because of inebriation or maybe a combination of both.

All the way over here in the kitchen, he could feel the music throbbing through the floor. He could barely hear himself think, let alone keep track of the conversation going on in front of him. Bahorel materialized at Grantaire’s side after a while. He covered his mouth with his hand as he spoke into Grantaire’s ear.

“Ah, sorry. I’m needed on the dance floor,” Grantaire said. He apologized again and lifted his hand in farewell as he trailed out of the kitchen on Bahorel’s heels. Combeferre took the opportunity to check his phone, which had vibrated in his pockets a few minutes ago.

Jehan had sent him: _i did what i could for you good luck xx_

Combeferre took the text message as his cue to search for Courfeyrac. He grabbed a plastic cup from the counter as he passed, downing most of it in one gulp in an attempt to bolster his courage.

He eventually caught sight of Courfeyrac. To his dismay, he was on the complete other side of the room, separated from Combeferre by an entire makeshift dance floor. Combeferre angled around several bodies pressed together, swaying to the bass pumping through the speakers. But when he got closer, Combeferre noticed that he was already absorbed in a conversation with Enjolras. Combeferre watched as Enjolras said something that made Courfeyrac grimace. He shrunk back further, not wanting to intrude.

He felt a tap on the shoulder and turned around. He strained to make out the person’s face.

“Hey,” the stranger said with a smile. He pointed to Combeferre’s yellow plastic cup, which was nearly empty. “Can I get you another drink?”

“Um. Sure?” Combeferre tore his gaze away from Courfeyrac and followed the stranger back into the kitchen, where he could better scrutinize his face. He observed as the man brought him a new cup, filled almost to the rim. He had blonde hair was matted to his forehead with sweat. His blue eyes were piercing in the light of the kitchen. His cheekbones were well-defined and he had an impressively strong jawline. But nothing about his face appealed to Combeferre at all. Some of the drink sloshed over the sides of the cup as he handed it over. 

“Thanks,” Combeferre said, lifting the cup slightly in a mock toast. They traded introductions and chatted briefly about work. It turned out that Marcus worked for the marketing department of some company that Combeferre had never heard of. Combeferre briefly wondered where Courfeyrac had met this guy.  
  
"So, what do you do?" Marcus asked as he tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind his ear.  
  
"I'm a doctor. Well. Training to be one." 

“Nice! Did you save a life today, or anything?” he wondered.

“Not today, unfortunately. But the night is still young, I suppose.” Combeferre’s mind drifted back to the gurney surfing and the two lines of trained medical professionals serving as spectators. He wondered how many of them lost money because of today’s race. Served them right for betting on Joly over him.

“You know, this party is getting kind of loud. We could get out of here, if you want? Maybe find another bar, or something," he suggested. 

“You’re nice to offer, but no thanks,” Combeferre said quickly, the blood rushing to his cheeks. “I’m, uh, not interested.”

“Oh. Alright,” the man said, crestfallen. He leaned forward and pulled over a napkin from the haphazard stack in the center of the breakfast bar. He fished a pen out of his back pocket and scrawled his number on it. “In case you change your mind?”

Combeferre accepted it with what he hoped looked like a grateful smile. He edged away from the stranger and lost himself in the crowd in the living room, hoping desperately that Courfeyrac wouldn’t have chosen that moment to appear. 

He scanned the area as soon as he felt like he had put an adequate distance between himself and the stranger. Courfeyrac was, thankfully, still across the room and definitely out of earshot of everything that had transpired. A wave of relief washed over Combeferre. He lingered near the edge of the crowd for a while and in plain sight. He watched as Courfeyrac alternated dancing with Bahorel and Grantaire. He didn’t even seem to notice Combeferre standing by himself.

_Why would he notice you?_ Combeferre reprimanded himself. He spotted Jehan in the foray, dancing by himself and to his own beat. He found an opening in the crowd and eased himself in. 

“Dance with me?” Combeferre said.

He hoped that the disappointment in his eyes would tell Jehan all the things that he didn’t want to say out loud. Jehan pulled him closer and then for a little while, all Combeferre could see was the way Jehan’s hair bounced when he danced and the way he screwed his eyes shut when he really enjoyed a song.

Combeferre began to feel a little bit better. It was easy to focus on the music and ignore everything else. The crowd thickened around himself and Jehan. 

He’d given Courfeyrac a couple of chances to approach him and nothing had happened. That much was clear. Maybe he really was reading everything wrong.

_Why was I so sure that something was going to happen, anyway?_ He thought in resignation. 

When he returned to his flat well past midnight, the first thing he did was head to the kitchen and pull the napkin out of his back pocket. The last two digits of the number were smudged beyond recognition. A relieved laugh escaped his mouth.

"Not a chance," he breathed. He tossed it in the trash without allowing himself to guilty about it.

* * *

Combeferre sat on the couch late the next morning, his legs tucked underneath him, as he ate his breakfast. He cradled a bowl of cereal while the news channel played quietly in the background. The rapid knocking on his door startled him enough that bowl nearly slipped out of his hands. He left the bowl, with only a bit of milk remaining at the bottom, on the counter on his way to the front door.  
  
He readjusted his shirt and did a hasty breath check. It wasn’t satisfactory but there was no time now to fix it.

He pulled the door open, a smile already plastered on his face. He wasn’t even aware that Courfeyrac knew how to pull himself out of bed this early in the morning.

“You’ve never come over this early before - ” he started to say. The words died on his tongue. He was still clutching the doorknob tightly on his side, his knuckles turning white. He hoped his embarrassment didn’t show too plainly on his face.  
  
“Oh." _Fuck._ "Sorry, I thought…” he trailed off.

“Expecting someone else?” Grantaire teased.

Combeferre chose not to address the comment. "How can I help you?" he wondered. He stifled a yawn with his hand.

Wordlessly, Enjolras held up his arm, Grantaire’s arm tugged up with it. Combeferre had to swallow a laugh when he realized that they were tied together with a series of elaborate knots. Enjolras’ wrist was chafed and bright red, presumably from their attempts to fiddle with it.

Combeferre pulled his door open wider, so that the two of them could follow him back to the kitchen. He rummaged around his junk drawer until he found a pair of sewing scissors with bright orange handles. He held them up victoriously and slammed the drawer shut with his hip.

“So. Who did you piss off?” Combeferre wondered. The two of them offered out their wrists out to him and he set to work.

“Courfeyrac,” they said together, their unamused tone nearly identical.

“Let me guess. He hid the scissors,” Combeferre said. It was all so predictable. He paused momentarily to glance at them. “But wouldn’t he guess that you’d come over here? He should have hidden mine, too.”

“Courfeyrac lacks foresight in his pranks,” Enjolras said with a sigh. “He's more interested in the immediate effects."

“And thank god for that,” Grantaire added. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Combeferre stopped cutting and pulled back, eliciting a panicked whimper from Grantaire. “Why’d you stop?” he asked quickly.

“He must have done this for a reason,” Combeferre said. Enjolras made a move to swipe the scissors with his free hand, but Combeferre anticipated it. He stepped away and out of his reach. He studied the two of them, who were now glaring angrily at him. If looks could kill, he would have definitely been dead by now. But still he asked, “What’d you do?”

“We don’t have to tell you that,” Enjolras said indignantly. He made a move to cross his arms, but he ended up yanking Grantaire’s arm with him.

“Oi!” Grantaire cried out at the sensation of the rope digging into his wrist.

“I guess you don't," Combeferre allowed. "But since I’ve got you here, can I ask you a question?” 

“Only if you cut us free,” Enjolras snapped.

“Okay, so,” Combeferre continued. He glanced at the scissors in his hand, wondering if he was being too cruel. “Have you two noticed that Courfeyrac has been acting weird lately? And by weird I mean, saying one thing and doing another?”

Grantaire and Enjolras shared a look that Combeferre couldn't quite decipher. Grantaire looked straight down at the floor as Enjolras answered. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras said evenly. 

Combeferre frowned. “Really?”   
  
"No clue," Grantaire added.  
  
“Oh. Okay." Combeferre stepped forward and continued cutting at the knots. Grantaire audibly sighed in relief. Combeferre suddenly felt guilty for asking them, especially if his perception was mistaken and it really was just all in his head. Whatever the two of them did to warrant this, he had no right to add to their cruel and unusual punishment.

The rope was thick and took a lot of forceful cuts before Combeferre could work it loose. Enjolras almost cried with relief as he cradled his liberated arm to his chest. Grantaire actually launched himself at Combeferre and hugged him out of gratitude.

“For a minute there, I didn’t think you were going to keep cutting,” Grantaire admitted. 

“I’ll remember this, Combeferre,” Enjolras said solemnly. He rubbed at the irritated marks on his wrist. “Perhaps you will be spared in our next prank war.”

“And for that I'd be grateful,” Combeferre said as he replaced his scissors back in the drawer. Grantaire promptly disappeared down the hallway in search of Combeferre’s bathroom.

Enjolras touched Combeferre’s arm to get his attention. He looked like he was debating with himself whether or not he was going to say something. 

"Courfeyrac goes through... _phases_ sometimes. And those phases don't last forever,” he said quietly. Combeferre wasn’t sure, but it seemed like Enjolras was trying to be comforting. He was still thankful for whatever made Enjolras take pity on him. “But I didn’t tell you that.”

His head snapped up as Grantaire rejoined him in the kitchen. He clamped his mouth shut. Enjolras' comments left him feeling more confused than comforted. Was Courfeyrac's interest in him the phase or did Enjolras mean something else altogether? 

Combeferre followed them back out to the front door and watched them leave. He was surprised to see that, even though he had cut them free not even five minutes ago, they automatically threaded their hands together as they made their way down the stairs.

Combeferre fixed his gaze on Courfeyrac's door, trying his best to ignore the tightness of longing in his chest. He chewed on his bottom lip. Maybe Enjolras was right and Courfeyrac was going through a phase that would end soon. It was always possible.

_Or maybe…_ a voice inside his head insisted. _Maybe you are overthinking everything._


	9. Chapter 9

Combeferre spent much of the next day engulfed in a haze. It followed him, blurring his actions into a soft focus. Hard as he tried to keep himself present, his thoughts drifted away of their own accord and resisted his attempts to be steered in any particular direction. So, he filled his day with tasks that wouldn’t demand too much of his compromised attention.

He devoted a good portion of the morning to delivering bouquets of flowers left at the information counter. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for an intern to do such a thing, but it wasn’t encouraged, either. However, he did his rounds while dropping off the flowers, so who was going to complain? Besides, the grateful smiles sent his way from the harried volunteers, who were doing their best to deal with an unusually high number of people needing assistance, made it worth the risk.

The wheels of his little grey cart squeaked against the polished floor as he headed to the pediatric ward for the last delivery. He placed a pink vase of sunflowers on the little girl’s nightstand and exchanged small talk with her parents. At the child’s invitation, he lingered for a while to help her fill in a section of her coloring sheet with some borrowed crayons.

He took his lunch break afterward. He took some time to wander along the less populated wards. He escorted his patients to their various tests. He busied himself with fetching results from the lab and then half-listened to his resident berating him for not getting them quick enough.

At last, it was time for him to leave. He was so engrossed in the thinking about the commute and the inevitable question of what to have for dinner that he almost missed the tech calling out his name behind him. It took a friendly tap on the shoulder for him to get Combeferre’s attention.

“Oh, sorry!” Combeferre said, slowing his pace. He turned back around, tearing his gaze away from the sliding doors leading to the employee parking lot. He readjusted one of the straps on his backpack as he waited for the tech to get on with it.

The tech ran a hand through his hair and tried to smile. When he spoke, his sentences came out sounding more like questions. “I just wanted to tell you that I won some money from the race last week? So, thanks… for, um, winning?”

Some of the sadness that had been hanging over Combeferre’s head seemed to lighten at the comment. He complimented the tech for the excellent bet and continued on his way.

When he finally returned home that evening, he trudged straight through the living room. He cast a cursory glance at the television and continued on to the bedroom.

He contemplated doing laundry, like he usually did on Monday nights, as he tugged off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat. He collapsed onto his bed and rolled over onto his back. As he sank into the mattress, the idea of doing laundry grew more and more unappealing.

The whole day seemed to have condensed into something unrecognizable in his head. He combed through his memory, trying to remember specific things he’d accomplished. But the strands of conversations and actions were so tangled together that it was hard to pick apart the individual threads.

All he knew for sure was that he was feeling inexplicably anxious. He decided it’d be best to deal with it in the morning. He promptly fell asleep.

* * *

He woke late on Tuesday. He was momentarily distressed by the time on his phone until he remembered that he didn’t have to show up at work until later, owing to a rather strangely scheduled shift that would last from two in the afternoon until two in the morning.

He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower. He changed out of yesterday’s clothes and into a pair of jeans that he saved for lazy days. He then resolved to do something about the laundry threatening to overflow from the hamper. He dragged it out to the living room and glanced at the clock on the microwave as he passed by.

He momentarily abandoned his laundry. He leaned against the door and pressed his eye to the peep hole. He watched as Courfeyrac stepped out of his own flat. His keys jingled as he locked his door, just like Combeferre expected. However, he was _not_ expecting Courfeyrac to pocket his keys and cross the landing.

 _Ah, shit._ He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against the door. His heart dropped into his stomach.

It was quiet for a long time and the knock he was expecting never came. He looked back through the peephole in time to see Courfeyrac lowering his fist and turning away. He stayed rooted to the spot as he wondered what it was that had made him change his mind.

He waited by the door for longer than was strictly necessary. He only ventured out when he was certain that the coast was clear. As he headed down to the empty laundry room, he wondered if he would have actually opened the door, had Courfeyrac decided to actually knock on it.

It wasn’t until he was half done with folding his clean clothes that it dawned on him that he hadn’t spoken to Courfeyrac since Sunday. No wonder he’d been feeling so off. He was relieved to have gotten to the bottom of it. He hastily folded the rest of the clothes and took the basket back upstairs with him.

It was still a bit early to be leaving for work, but he went anyway. He drove the long way, making a slight detour to drop in at his favorite bakery on the way, just because he had the luxury of time.

He went into the hospital through one of the back entrances and headed straight to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He was slightly breathless when he reached the rooftop. He pulled out his phone and shot off a quick text to Joly.

Though he had been working at the same hospital for nearly half a year now, he still wasn’t sure whose idea it had been to landscape the rooftop. He’d been meaning to ask but kept forgetting. Regardless, he was glad it existed.

His eyes drifted over the potted flowers liberally scattered around the space, all nestled in smooth clay pots. He lowered himself onto a bench situated between two pots with thick green vines spilling over their rims. He was thinking that the flowers would soon be out of season when the heavy metal door swung open.

Combeferre scooted over to make room for Joly. As he sat down, Combeferre wordlessly passed over a couple of napkins and a brown paper bag. Inside, there were two of the oversized chocolate doughnuts with the jelly filling that Joly loved so much.

Joly accepted the offering with a loud shriek. “You’re a saint, ‘Ferre, I mean it!”

“Thanks, but just so you know, one of those is for me.”

Joly obligingly passed over one, half-wrapped in a napkin. He tore his own doughnut into quarters and popped a piece in his mouth. He gave an appreciative groan. “You know, I can’t tell if it’s _unusually_ good or if it’s good because I haven’t eaten all morning.”

Combeferre meanwhile had torn his into two halves and was working on the first piece. “Could be both.”

“True.”

Combeferre held up a piece in a mock toast. His fingers were sticky and slightly stained from the jelly. “Here’s hoping this will get you through until lunch.”

“Oh, it will. Don’t you worry,” Joly said with a grin. He reached up to brush the stray crumbs from his chin with his free hand. “I’m sure this isn’t what you wanted to talk about, though.”

“ _Au contraire,_ I want to talk about these doughnuts for the rest of my life,” Combeferre said with a melodramatic sigh. He busied himself with the task of wiping off the excess jelly from his fingertips.

Joly hummed. He started to talk with his mouth full and it ended up sounding like, “Ah wuhder wha cue ‘ogger wood” and the rest was lost.

“Want to try that again?” Combeferre asked with a laugh. Joly made a show of swallowing the last of his doughnut before speaking again.

“ _I said,_ I wonder what Cute Jogger would think about that?”

“Oh.” Combeferre looked away and instead watched nearby flower petals swaying in the breeze. “Don’t know.”

Joly thought about saying something else and then changed his mind. He sat back against the bench, his hands folded across his stomach, and gave Combeferre time to think.

Combeferre meanwhile understood at some level that he had reached a crossroads. But even though he knew the way the wanted to go, he was still having some trouble taking the first step. He knew what he wanted to do and he knew the result had the potential to be wonderful, and yet. The risks and the doubts that lie on the way to getting what he wanted seemed to be pressing closer.

Instead of trying to explain this, Combeferre decided to pose a different question.

He turned to Joly and asked very seriously, “I haven’t made this up, have I? I mean, I haven’t exactly been known for my good judgment lately.”

Something in Joly’s expression seemed to soften. He shook his head and gave a firm, “No.”

Combeferre’s frown deepened. Joly reached out to lightly touch his arm. He said, “He likes you. I'm sure of it.”

“Then why hasn’t he done anything about it?”

The response came out more forcefully than Combeferre intended. It was something that he had been relentlessly asking himself for days now. There was something strangely cathartic about being able to say it out loud.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Joly replied. “But I don’t think that’s what’s bothering you.”

“It… isn’t?” Combeferre asked slowly, while at the same time wondering how Joly had gotten so good at this. He was almost certain that he was, in fact, bothered by Courfeyrac’s inaction. Now his curiosity was piqued.

“Indulge me for a second,” Joly said. He sat forward on the bench and held up three fingers. “I have no clue how many boyfriends you had before med school, but these are the ones I know about.”

“Alright,” Combeferre said warily. He felt uneasy about where this was headed.

“How did things get started with Adrien?” Joly wondered, even though he already knew the answer. The line of questioning was not intended for himself.

Combeferre responded as if Joly had asked him an easy piece of trivia. “He asked me out to a coffee shop.”

Joly lowered a finger and continued on casually, “And Émile?”

“Oh, god.” Combeferre chewed on his lower lip as he struggled to remember. “I’m pretty sure he asked me to the movies?”

Joly looked pointedly at Combeferre, waiting for the realization. But since it didn’t come, he lowered his index finger and continued with the last name. “And Jean-Claude?”

“He asked me to the theater and - ” Combeferre stopped abruptly. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Oh.”

Joly sat back again, immensely satisfied with himself. Combeferre shifted on the bench. A pinkish color rose in his cheeks. He dropped his head and fidgeted with a few loose threads on the sleeve of his coat.

“It’s okay to be nervous. You don’t usually have to ask people out,” Joly consoled him. Somewhere below them in the lot, a shrill car alarm was going off. Combeferre looked up again when the noise stopped.

“This is so embarrassing,” Combeferre admitted, pressing his palms to his flushed cheeks.

“It’s adorable, actually,” Joly amended.

Combeferre lowered his hands. He knew now that if he was ever going to get rid of the anxious crossroads feeling, he was going to have to stop waiting and do something.

Joly flinched and reached down to yank his vibrating pager from the waistband of his scrubs. He pulled himself off the bench as he scanned the message. Combeferre sent him on his way with a wave of his hand when he looked up again.

“I can’t do anything tonight,” he protested at Joly’s retreating figure. “Don’t get off until two.”

“Tomorrow then!” Joly called back.

The door slammed shut behind Joly and, for a moment, the only thing Combeferre could hear was his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Combeferre looked back at the garden around him. The breeze had died down by now, and the flowers were standing still.

He nodded his head once.

“Tomorrow,” he decided.

* * *

Combeferre spent much of the next day agonizing about what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. He had a shorter shift today, and he used up both of his breaks to thinking through what he had to do.

He used his past boyfriends as a starting point, trying his best to remember what they’d said before he’d agreed to go out with them. As the day progressed the simple question of, _do you want to go out with me_ , progressed to, _I’d like to spend more time with you_ , and then finally to, _we don’t see each other enough_. There was another potential scenario that included Combeferre asking Courfeyrac if he wanted to try out a new coffee shop with him.

No matter how hard he tried to prepare, none of his options seemed good enough. He was back home by now and ascending the stairs. As their landing got closer and closer, Combeferre worried more and more. He was frozen on the last step. From here, he could see that Courfeyrac’s door was open. The sound of soft music drifted over to him.

He went up one step to the landing and then turned right back around and went down two stairs. He ran his hands through his hair and steeled himself. He took a deep breath and decided that he was just going to walk in there and say whatever felt right, preparation be damned.

He closed the rest of the distance and walked with determination to Courfeyrac’s doorstep. He poked his head in and vaguely noticed that his speakers were being used to prop the door open. He hovered in the doorway, looking through to the kitchen.

Combeferre registered multiple things at once: the temperature on the oven, the places where mix was spilled on the counter, unopened icing. But his most pressing concern was that Courfeyrac’s back was to him. His side was pressed against the countertop as he measured out the mix, and a frilly apron was knotted at the small of his back.

His eyes traveled back down the slope of Courfeyrac’s back with the flimsy pretext of looking at the knotted apron. He cringed as his brain supplied a handful of kinky thoughts without him asking it to.

_Good lord._

And then he remembered his resolution to say the first thing that came to mind. His plan was crumbling. It wasn’t really much of a plan to begin with, was it?

He curled his hand into a fist and forced himself to knock on the door. He cleared his throat, hoping that it would seem like he’d just arrived and not standing there gawking. He still wasn’t able to say anything.

“Hello,” Courfeyrac said for him. Right. A simple hello would have been good.

It took another second, but Combeferre eventually managed to compliment the apron.

“Thanks!” Courfeyrac laughed and dusted his hands against it. “Didn’t want to ruin my trousers.”

Combeferre merely nodded his agreement. His brain fixated on the trousers beneath the apron again, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak.

No matter, Courfeyrac continued on with what he was doing. He put the cakes in the oven and set the timer. After that was done, he took off the apron and carefully folded it over the counter. Combeferre figured that he probably looked like a huge idiot, standing there flustered and speechless.

Combeferre watched Courfeyrac bouncing on the balls of his feet. The next thing he knew, Courfeyrac was unplugging the speakers and handing them to him. He pretended not to notice the warmth of Courfeyrac’s hands as he passed them over.

“Thanks for letting us borrow the speakers,” Courfeyrac was saying.

Combeferre managed to smile. “Anytime,” he said.

He half-turned as if to leave. He hesitated. A voice in his head was urging, _Now, now, now, this is it!_ It wouldn’t have been difficult to just say something simple like, _hey wanna go out with me sometime?_ But his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

After a few excruciatingly frustrating seconds, he nodded to his apartment and headed the other way.

He let himself in to his flat and headed back to his room to put the speakers away in his closet. When he returned to the living room to shut the door all the way, he was surprised to see Courfeyrac making himself at home on his couch, the bowl of cake batter in hand.

He was secretly pleased, but he rearranged his expression to look sufficiently shocked by the turn of events. He didn’t dare admit to himself that he was hoping it would happen if he didn’t shut the door completely.

“Cake mix?” Courfeyrac asked as Combeferre crossed into the kitchen.

“At least use a spoon,” he replied, already in the process of digging two out of the silverware drawer.

“Not going to warn me that raw cake mix will give me salmonella?”

“That would be Joly’s department,” Combeferre retorted. He sank down into the couch cushions and passed a spoon over to Courfeyrac. “And really when it tastes this good, the threat is almost worth it.”

His smile faded as he swallowed the batter. He was now frowning. His gaze flitted between Courfeyrac and the bowl. “How _much_ vanilla did you put in there?”

Courfeyrac’s mouth was full of the spoon, but he answered anyway. “Ah lo’.”

Combeferre couldn’t help thinking about Joly talking the same way the day before and suddenly he was laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. With a sigh, he sat back and let himself enjoy talking with Courfeyrac and eating the absurdly sweet batter balanced on the couch between them.

And maybe he hadn’t succeeded in his original goal yet, but he felt comforted by the reassurance that he would get there eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I hope you're all doing well! As always, thank you so much for your support, and I hope you enjoyed the update. :)


	10. Chapter 10

“I asked you to transfer M. Dupont to oncology an hour ago. Have you done it yet?”

Combeferre’s gaze drifted past his resident and into the nearby room.

“I thought not,” she was saying now, without even pausing to take a breath. She pushed an intruding curl away from her eyes and said, “The competency of interns today is just deplorable.”

He’d learned a long time ago that she wasn’t expecting a response, and he was only _to be seen and not heard_. A mildly annoyed expression would steal onto her face if he actually attempted to produce an answer. Instead, he let her go on while he looked around her, itching for a way to escape.

She halted in what she was saying and blinked, as if she only just noticed that he was standing there. She regarded him, her brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. Combeferre wondered, as he had on several occasions, if her speeches were a part of some rambling internal monologue that she ended up spouting out loud sometimes. He wasn’t stupid enough to ask if this was the case. But he’d always had a strong suspicion, and that suspicion grew stronger every time he was drawn into one of her diatribes.

She huffed and made a waving motion with her hands. “Go on, make yourself useful somewhere else.”

Combeferre didn’t need to be told twice, and he moved to peer into a nearby room. At the same time, she turned around and headed in the opposite direction. She grumbled as she retreated down the hallway, and a pair clinking noises followed in her wake each time her heels pierced the cheap flooring. Combeferre caught a final glimpse of the hem of her lab coat swaying before it disappeared around the corner.

He exhaled, unsure of how long he’d actually been holding his breath. He moved into the room now that the coast was clear. His own notes about the patient with head trauma resurfaced in his mind, including random snippets from her intake interview and a short report from the surgery she’d undergone. The overhead lights were shut off and the blinds were drawn open. Outside, a blanket of drab grey clouds was shielding the worst of the sun.

But even with the overcast day outside, it was still uncomfortably bright in her room.

Combeferre moved quietly, careful to weave around the patient’s bed and the few upholstered chairs scattered about without disturbing anything. He reached for the cord on the right side of the fixture, cupping the plastic slats in his palm as he eased them down. He stopped a few inches from the windowsill, allowing a bit of light to seep through. At least now it wasn’t nearly as bright as it had been before.

He was just turning back around when he heard a hoarse voice address him.

“Thank you,” she croaked, her head elevated slightly off of the pillow.

“Of course,” Combeferre replied. She relaxed, moving her head in small increments until it was back on the pillow. Her blonde hair hung limp around her oval face, and her blue eyes stared dully back at him.

He lowered his voice as he moved to stand at her bedside. “Can I get you anything?” he wondered.

She blinked and her expression grew cloudy, like she hadn’t understood the words he’d used.

“Do you need anything?” he repeated, the patience in his tone never wavering. “Some water, maybe a snack?”

Her countenance shifted and her chapped lips softened into a smile. She said, “No, no, I’m quite alright.”

“You sure?” Combeferre paused and shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. He added, “They have pudding in the cafeteria today, if you’re hungry. It’s the good stuff.”

“Really?” Her whole face brightened at the information, but she was quick to check her eagerness. “Seems too good to be true.”

“I’m serious! I saw it this morning,” he insisted. That wasn’t quite correct; Joly was the one who’d seen it. He’d relayed the information in passing, but Combeferre considered the source to reliable enough, at least where pudding was concerned.

“Am I even allowed to eat pudding?” she asked next. “There’s hasn’t been anything like that on my tray before.”

“Ma’am,” Combeferre said, fixing her with the most serious look in his arsenal. “Consider it doctor’s orders.”

Combeferre observed her as she considered his offer. Her eyes swept over the room and finally landed on the drawn blinds. “How can I say no to that?” she said finally.

Combeferre was already half-way to the door. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

He returned a short while later with two pudding cups cradled in one hand and an extra pillow tucked beneath his other arm. Two plastic spoons peeked out of the pocket of his lab coat. He set both down on the small tray adjacent to her bed and then moved to help prop her up in bed. She sat forward to allow him to add the extra pillow behind her back. In the process, he caught a glimpse of where a small patch of hair had been shaved away before the surgery. It was now growing back in a soft layer of fuzz.

Combeferre scooted one of the chairs next to her bedside, its legs squeaking as he dragged it across the floor. He set to opening her cup first, peeling back the lid carefully and then offering it to her to lick.

Mild surprise and amusement mingled on her face at the sight of it. She took it from him and held it steady between her thumb and index finger. “This is really the best part,” she commented as she brought it to her mouth.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Combeferre replied. He set both the pudding and the spoon on the small tray for her. Now that she was occupied, he set to work prying the lid off of his own plastic cup.

He couldn’t help but laugh when he looked up and saw her carefully dragging her tongue over the filmy lid, savoring every taste of the chocolate pudding. It was such a stark contrast to the way Joly attacked his, sticking the whole thing in his mouth and sucking away all the residue in one go.

“What’s so funny?” she asked as she set the lid aside. “Did I do something?”

“No, it’s not you,” Combeferre said. He dragged his spoon around and gave it a good mix. He’d been thinking of Joly before but now he was reminded of Courfeyrac, sitting on his couch with a spoon shoved in his mouth. He blamed the surfacing of the memory partly on the vanilla scent wafting up from his plastic cup. “You just reminded me of someone,” he said vaguely.

He stuck the spoon in his mouth then from having to elaborate further. But she was not so easily deterred.

“Someone good, I hope?” she prodded. Combeferre felt his lips attempting to form a smile around the black plastic spoon. Around it, he said, “U’huh.”

She prepared another spoonful and didn’t try to make sense of the noncommittal response.

“Well, in any case…you’re thinking of them, and you aren’t frowning. That’s good enough for me,” she concluded, sitting back against her pillows in satisfaction.

Combeferre was still thinking about it as he continued to converse with her. The quiet thought stayed in the back of his mind even when he was collecting their trash and cracking her door shut behind him.

He turned it over in his mind as he headed to the locker room a short while later. He half-listened to the patter of the rain against the windowpanes and worked to gather his stuff together so that he could head off to the Musain for the meeting that night. He reminded himself that he needed to go out the front exit this time to properly follow his shortcut.

He walked slowly down the hallway leading toward the main entrance, not feeling as though he was in any particular rush. It was oddly quiet today, and the sleepy feeling permeating the entire hospital was not helping him rekindle the energy he’d need to get through the meeting.

The first set of automatic doors slid open in front of him and then the second. It was still raining hard enough to necessitate an umbrella, but it was showing signs of tapering off.

Someone called his name somewhere off to his left.

He blinked and watched Courfeyrac materialize from the sheets of rain. He froze and found himself unable to move an inch. Combeferre wondered if Courfeyrac was actually there or if he'd walked straight out of his imagination because he'd been thinking about him earlier. 

In the next second, a coffee cup was shoved in his direction, and the sight of it spurred his brain into motion. He noticed the way Courfeyrac’s hair was matted to the sides of his face and how his wet clothes were molded around his limbs.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre wondered if he’d missed him say the greeting the first time, but he decided to blame it on the din of the rainfall. Courfeyrac moved closer and offered the steaming cup to him. “I thought we could walk to the meeting together.”

“Right. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.” He swallowed and accepted the cup. He attempted to curb the previous feeling as he stared down at the coffee.

Courfeyrac was watching him expectantly, and Combeferre started as it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually tried it yet.

Courfeyrac lifted his own cup now, almost as if to shield his face. “I hope I got the order right,” he was saying.

Combeferre raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip. He took another sip, much bigger this time, just to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. But the same concoction of coffee with milk, sugar and hazelnut mingled in his mouth.

“How did you…?” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. Either Courfeyrac was a mind-reader or someone else had told him. His gut feeling couldn’t tell him whether it was Joly or Jehan who’d been involved, but it turned out he didn’t have to wait much longer for the confession.

Courfeyrac grinned a big smile that brought out the dimples in his cheek. He was evidently very pleased with himself. “As much as I’d love to take credit, Jehan told me,” he admitted. He tilted his head in the general direction of the street. “Shall we?”

“Hold on, I think I have an umbrella,” Combeferre replied. He shrugged off his backpack and then tried, unsuccessfully, to balance it in one hand and the coffee in the other. At finding himself about to drop one or both, he shoved the coffee cup in Courfeyrac’s general direction. He thrust his hand into one of the smaller pockets to feel around for the umbrella. He felt the sleek black material beneath his fingertips and he tugged it out, holding it like he’d just made a brilliant discovery.

They had to walk shoulder to shoulder in order to fit reasonably well underneath it. But, even with the two of them huddled together beneath it, it wasn’t enough to shield their other shoulders from the rain.

Combeferre found that he didn’t really mind. Despite the dreariness of the day, he felt a pleasant warmth all over, and he was almost positive that it had nothing to do with the steaming coffee cup clutched in his hand.

* * *

When they arrived at the Musain, he’d made sure to put a little distance between himself and Courfeyrac. He chose to gravitate toward Enjolras instead. It was partly because the walk had made him feel like he was off-balance, like the side of his body that had been pressed against Courfeyrac’s felt lighter than the other. The other reason was that he’d discovered in the short time since they’d arrived that Courfeyrac was one of those people who had hair that curled slightly at the tips when it began to dry, and it was incredibly distracting.

 _Focus_ , he chided himself. He drew his chair up next to Enjolras and caught a snippet of what he was saying. He listened for a while and tried guess at what he’d missed. Assembling the pieces of Enjolras’ ideas together while he addressed the rest of the group helped distract Combeferre from the infuriating realization that he hadn’t succeeded in getting his hands tangled in that head of hair yet. By all accounts, it was a tragedy. It made him want to scream and laugh and cry, maybe all at the same time.

No one could ever accuse Combeferre of not at least _trying_ to pay attention to the meeting. But when his gaze drifted away from Enjolras, he noticed that the same could not be said of Courfeyrac. His head was turned in Enjolras’ general direction, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere.

Every so often, he scratched at his neck and readjusted his collar. Combeferre had to look more closely until he noticed that the material had stiffened as it dried. He suddenly wished they’d been smart enough to take a taxi. He resolved to get one on the way home to avoid aggravating the problem.

Combeferre’s attention was jolted back to Enjolras when he began to spout out figures. “How many flyers do you think we’ll need? Roughly?” he was asking the group. There were a few murmured proposals. “How does ten thousand sound?”

Combeferre almost burst out laughing, but he covered it with a well-timed cough. Various members of the group exchanged pointed looks with one another, which led Combeferre to suspect that strains of this ridiculousness had happened before.

“How about eight thousand?” Bahorel said, as if he was reading the words off of a script. He was sitting next to Feuilly, their shoulders pressed close together. Joly and Bossuet were seated next to them, their hands entwined and resting on the tabletop. Judging by the movement of their fingers, they were locked in some kind of a thumb war.

It occurred to Combeferre to wonder whether this social justice group was merely masquerading as some kind of dating service.

Combeferre was still thinking about that as Bossuet raised his head long enough to propose another number. It _did_ seem kind of suspicious…

“We’ll need at least ten thousand,” Enjolras insisted, refusing to budge.

Eponine was next. She hardly glanced up from her phone as she said, “Five thousand.”

Enjolras folded his arms and planted his feet more firmly on the ground. “Ninety-five hundred.”

It was silent for a moment and a couple of them looked in Courfeyrac’s direction, waiting for him to propose the next number. Even Enjolras spared him an expectant glance.

But the entire exchange seemed to be lost on Courfeyrac. He stayed quiet, leaving Grantaire to chip in with a halfhearted, “Two thousand.”

“No less than five thousand,” Enjolras conceded and left it at that.

Combeferre was feeling sympathetic toward the poor soul who was going to get stuck with the job of printing all those flyers when Enjolras turned to stare down Courfeyrac.

“Are you going to flyer with me?” he inquired, folding his arms over his chest.

Courfeyrac’s attention was still fixed on something across the room, and his eyes were glassy. Combeferre wondered what he was thinking about. It must have been important, judging by his creased brow and slight frown.

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras repeated a little more forcefully.

Courfeyrac flinched. He flinched in his seat like he’d been shocked. “… Yes?” he tried.

“Great. That’s sorted.” Enjolras shot him a smile without repeating himself, and Combeferre found himself thinking that it was rather cruel.

After the meeting, Courfeyrac drifted from friend to friend, trying to figure out what he’d agreed to. Combeferre watched his attempts as he shrugged his coat back on and buttoned it up to his chin. But no one was particularly eager to enlighten him, least of all Bahorel, who was still sporting a single eyebrow.

Courfeyrac didn’t say anything when the taxi pulled up in front of their building. As they crossed the lobby, Combeferre caught a glimpse of the row of silver mailboxes in his peripheral vision, and his mind got stuck on the recollection of Courfeyrac colliding with him, nearly a month ago now. He prayed that the warmth in his cheeks wouldn’t give his thoughts away.

He was still smiling slightly when Courfeyrac turned to him and attempted to glean the answer from him one last time.

Combeferre pitied him. “You really weren’t paying attention, were you?” he said.

Courfeyrac looked at back him with a vacant expression. He shook his head. Something shifted, and he suddenly seemed to be more present than he had been all night.

“Flyering on Saturday morning,” Combeferre informed him as they climbed the stairs. He counted himself lucky for having barely managed to catch the information himself.

Courfeyrac exhaled, presumably in relief. He replied with a simple, “Oh.”

“Enjolras apparently wants to try out some different approaches,” Combeferre added, hoping that it might help Courfeyrac redeem himself later.

Courfeyrac’s face seemed to crumple as understanding dawned on him. “Right.”

They were lingering on the landing now. They had one more set of stairs to climb until they’d have to go their separate ways. Courfeyrac ducked his head and pressed his fingers into his eyelids. Something twitched in Combeferre’s stomach.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked gently. He realized he’d seen this same expression over and over again at work. It almost always prefaced tears.

“Yeah, fine,” Courfeyrac said. He forced a smile and led the way up the last flight of stairs. Combeferre didn’t believe it for one second, but he didn’t want to press it any further. He fidgeted with the keys, deep in thought about what was currently in his cupboards. He racked his brain, trying desperately to remember if he had anything decent to offer to Courfeyrac. But, to his frustration, he came up short.

They traded good night wishes and parted. Combeferre shut his door and leaned against it. He sighed and brought his head against the door, the impact a little harder than what he’d been expecting. He screwed his eyes shut and let himself feel the emotion twisting around in his chest.

He was filled with a longing to make it better, whatever the _it_ was that was bothering Courfeyrac so much.

He sent a silent apology in the direction of the flat across the hall for not knowing where to even begin.


	11. Chapter 11

Friday night found Combeferre wandering around the halls of the hospital, gazing at an assortment of paintings hung lopsidedly on the walls. He was sure he should’ve been trying to find something productive to do with his time (namely, anything  _but_ this). But hospital capacity had been usually low for two days now, and death by boredom was a very real threat.   
  
In any case, the first rule of the hospital on Friday nights, slow or otherwise, was this: each doctor despised having to be there just as much as the next. As a result, everyone who had the misfortune of being there was left to their own devices to figure out a way to make the long hours bearable. And if  _this_  was the way he chose to whittle away what was left of his shift, then no one was going to call him out on it. Everyone coped differently, after all.   
  
As he continued to wander the hallways of various wards, he found himself thinking that the seemingly limitless number of nature paintings in this hospital was truly remarkable. Most of the paintings he examined were variations of the same theme, all of them depicting expansive fields and bright skies. As he continued down the ward, he noted that the scenes alternated in a predictable pattern. He tested the hypothesis and found it supported for the line of paintings hung on both sides of the wall.  _Summer, summer, winter, spring. Summer, summer, winter, spring_.   
  
The snowflakes suspended in midair in the one nearest him was grim a reminder of what was in his near future. He recoiled from it and found himself drawn toward the ones that depicted spring and summer. He much preferred imagining the way the blankets would be rolled out at the gardens, the people there lazing around in the afternoon sunlight. Added to that was the fact that a Certain Someone would be wearing shorts and short-sleeved shirts right around then. He would’ve been lying if he claimed he wasn’t looking forward to it.   
  
He tore himself away from that particular train of thought as he passed by the window of a break room. He'd passed it three times now, but it was only now that he was struck with an idea.   
  
As he approached the room, he could hear the low hum of a late-night newscast playing on the television mounted on the opposite wall. He unsure of whether his boredom would be best cured through a makeshift meal assembled from the vending machines there, or if it’d be better to sneak in a quick nap on the couch with the overstuffed cushions. Both were attractive options.   
  
He was still busy deciding which order he was going to do complete them when he was met by a cluster of his fellow interns at the threshold.

He found himself face-to-face with a female intern. He racked his brain, but all he could come up with was the generic  _hey, you_ , that their resident used as a substitute for their real names. He was familiar with her and was fairly certain her name started with an _A._ She was ranked one below him in the intern pool and they were always vying against each other for the residents’ attention. As he glanced at her, he found himself noticing, not for the first time, her immaculate scrubs. He wondered how on earth she found the time to keep them in such good condition. There were some things that he’d had to reprioritize as an intern. Scrub upkeep in particular and laundry in general was one of the things he continually chose to shirk.   
  
She rested a hand on his shoulder and traded a look with the two other interns, who now flanked both sides of him. An impromptu intervention, he realized. “You’ve been here a lot this week,” she said. “I think you’ve managed to squeeze in more hours than the four of us combined.”

“That may be true,” he allowed. “But I actually have no idea how many hours I’ve worked.” 

“Which is why we’re speaking with you,” she finished for him. “We’ll cover for you, if you’d like to head off.”  
  
“Head off?” he repeated. That particular combination of words was rare, indeed. 

“I don’t know, you could go grab dinner or something. Whatever you want.”   
  
“Dinner? It’s nearly midnight,” he said warily. Not that he was distrusting, exactly, but this kind of freedom usually came at a price. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch.” She shrugged and shot a look at the rest of the interns standing in the group. Their expressions shifted to confirm what she’d said. She made a gesture with her hand, brushing away his suspicion. “It’s so slow, no one’s even going to notice if you aren’t here.”

He had to agree with her on that front. His head was already spinning with all the possibilities. It was only midnight, after all. He could probably find a take-out place open this late, or he could catch up on the shows he’d fallen hopelessly behind on. Or he could crawl into bed and sleep however late he wanted, considering that he was blessedly free all weekend (another benefit of pulling so many hours during the week). Or he could do all three. Preferably in that same order. 

She observed the changing expression on his face and her lips twisted into a smile. She clapped him on the shoulder and then guided him back out the door, sending him off in the direction of the locker room on the opposite end of the ward.   
  
But before she left him, she leaned closer and slapped a sticky note against his lab coat. She spun on her heel and retreated without another word.   
  
The sticky part of it was practically non-existent, and, as a result, it only stuck to the fabric for a few seconds before slipping away. His hands darted out to catch it. and he cursed when it slipped through the space between his index and middle fingers. By the time he succeeded in peeling it off floor (tile and sticky notes were  _not_  an ideal combination), the other interns had disappeared, too. He was left standing in the middle of the hallway, gazing at the note.  __  
  
As he scrutinized it, things started to make a lot more sense.  
  
It was written with such a messy hand that there was no doubt it was from Joly. His handwriting was usually neat and borderline microscopic, but, when he was working, he insisted that he had to use his  _Official Doctor Handwriting._ This was the name he’d given to the loopy, nearly indecipherable script that he'd used to scribble the message currently clutched in Combeferre’s hand.

_Saw you wandering around the cardiology ward. You’re welcome. xx_

* * *

By two AM, the coffee table in Combeferre’s living room was littered with an assortment of take-out boxes, the food in them only half-eaten. The moment he sat down on the couch, finally still after an incredibly hectic week, his fatigue managed to catch up with him. It was strong enough to nearly knock him out right then and there. But he’d forced himself to stay awake just long enough to eat something and to drape a blanket over his shoulders. He hadn’t even managed to kick off his shoes before he was dozing off. 

Not long after he’d managed to drift off, he jolted awake again. He squinted in the darkness and squinted even more at the assault of light from his phone as he checked the time.  _2:30_ AM. He was just getting around to wondering what had woken him in the first place when he heard it again.   
  
It was the unmistakable smack of someone bumping into the walls in the stairwell. There was a bout of laughter after the latest thump that made him sit up straighter.  _Was that - ?_ He’d lived in a dorm at university long enough to know what that particular combination of noises meant. _Please, no_. _  
  
_The blanket slipped to the floor at the sudden motion, but he made no move to rescue it. Dread twisted around in his stomach and made his limbs feel heavy as he crossed the room in a series of determined strides. He sucked in his breath and braced himself before sneaking a glimpse out of the peephole. _You can handle this_ , he tried to tell himself. He folded his arms and held them tightly against his chest, though that did nothing to calm down his racing heart. _He can bring home anyone he likes -_

He continued to watch, but only Courfeyrac stumbled into view. He held his breath, waiting for the other person that would inevitably follow. There was no way he could’ve been making all that noise all by himself. He kept watching, but the other person he’d been expecting never materialized.   
  
Combeferre breathed a sigh of relief, his alarm suitably mollified. He stuffed the side of his hand in his mouth to prevent himself from laughing too loudly as he watched Courfeyrac miss the last step and stumble forward, his hands splayed out in front of him as he tried to regain his balance. When he pulled it off without falling to the floor, Combeferre decided that it was the most miraculous thing he’d seen all week. He promptly careened to his door and clutched onto the knob for dear life.   
  
Combeferre had the fleeting wish to be the one to set out the pair of aspirin and glass of water that he’d definitely need in the morning.   
  
The thought promptly vanished as he watched Courfeyrac drop his keys, interrupting his own laughing long enough to swear so loudly that the tenants on the top floor most likely heard him, and then ducked down to grab them. This whole process repeated itself twice more before he managed to unlock the door and stagger inside.

_Well, at least he made it home in one piece_ , Combeferre thought before turning away. There was another thump, but it was more subdued this time. _More or less_.  
  
It was only when he was heading to his own bedroom that he checked his phone again, this time noting that it was just a few minutes shy of three AM. He felt a twinge of sympathy for Courfeyrac as he anticipated the enormous hangover, which was not going to be pleasant, if the raucous display in the hallway was anything to go by. It was going to make for a rough day all around.   
  
He changed out of his two-day old clothes and crawled into bed, sinking gratefully into the embrace of the mattress. He fell asleep while he was still trying to come up with a way to make the upcoming day a little bit better. 

* * *

Like most good ideas, this one had occurred to him while he was showering.  
  
By the time Combeferre managed to pull himself out of bed, it was already nine. He hastened into his bathroom and yanked on the handle. He impatiently tested the stream with his fingers every few seconds until it reached a temperature he could tolerate. It was still a few degrees below lukewarm, but it would have to do. He was already preoccupied with mourning the fact that he’d most likely be too late to surprise Courfeyrac with breakfast. He’d been contemplating the possibility of brunch when he suddenly remembered the bakery, and in particular remembered the way that it’d worked wonders on Joly the other day. There was no way that a fresh-baked pastry or some kind of filled doughnut could possibly go amiss.   
  
As soon as he’d begun to think about the doughnuts, he started to wonder what it’d feel like to kiss Courfeyrac when he still had the mix of jelly and powdered sugar on his lips. But he figured he was going to have to switch the shower from warm to cold if he was going to think about that any longer.  _No time for that today_ , he decided.

As he sat in traffic fifteen minutes later, he found himself wondering if all his good luck had already been completely used up the night before. He resisted the urge to rest his head on the steering wheel as he waited for traffic to inch forward enough to let him turn off on one of the branching roads that would take him around the back way.   
  
He almost wanted to laugh at how things ended up working out. The laughter, of course, was a more appealing alternative to tears of frustration. How was it that, when he’d had plenty of time to waste the other day, there’d been no traffic and he’d had no trouble whatsoever reaching the bakery? And then today, when he really didn’t have much time to spare, it was nearly impossible to get anywhere. It was some kind of cosmic retribution.   
  
He willed himself to accept that it was going to be a hassle, but he still held out a little hope that maybe he had to suffer a few setbacks before the good things started happening again, as was usually the case.  
  
He nearly let out a whoop of victory as he succeeded in making it to the alternate road. It wasn’t the most direct way and would cost him another ten minutes, but at least he was moving. A definite improvement.   
  
It had begun to rain by the time he reached the bakery. He’d forgotten to grab his backpack on his way out, so much had he been rushing, and was left to hitch his peacoat over his head to form a makeshift umbrella. His shoes kicked up water as he walked, leaving the hem of his jeans thoroughly drenched by the time he reached the pavement. He stopped long enough to hold the door for the person who’d been trailing along on his heels before ducking inside.

With a growing sense of dismay, he realized that everyone apparently had had the same idea as him this morning. He inched forward and joined the queue wrapping around the counter, observing the people who were seeking shelter from the storm while he waited.   
  
He'd never actually seen this particular shop as crammed full as it was today. Some sat in clusters of twos and threes, leaned over steaming mugs, or tearing away corners of fresh bread. Others sat alone, having been lucky to commandeer a table for themselves, and kept hold of their precious gained territory with the help of laptop cases, multicolored folders, or, in the case one woman in the back corner, an alarmingly large purse.   
  
The place deserved all the patronage it was getting, but he still felt a prickle of irrational disappointment at the thought that his best kept secret had somehow been found out. The only consolation was that at least they still had a good stock of the doughnuts he’d been looking for when he finally did make it to the counter.

The drive back to the apartment passed quickly, as he was thoroughly absorbed in the task of coming up with a good excuse for why he was so late.  _Breakfast is just a construct,_  he reasoned. _The timing of the meal is completely arbitrary_. But no matter how many times he revised it, he still hadn’t managed to word it in a way that sounded convincing. He hoped the sight of the powdered sugar and the bit of jelly oozing out of it would be enough to make up for it.   
  
His heart leapt into his throat as he knocked on the door, timidly at first. When there was no sign of a response, he knocked a little louder. Courfeyrac was probably still dead asleep, or maybe in the shower and he couldn’t hear anything.   
  
He chewed on his lip while he waited, all the while thinking that it would’ve been incredibly helpful to have his phone number right about now.   
  
He balanced the paper bag in one hand while he pulled out his phone in the other. He didn’t have Courfeyrac’s number, but the sight of his phone consoled him a little. 

He turned his attention to the top of the display.  _10:45 AM_.

Shit. 

He held his phone against his chest and tipped his head against the door. He finally remembered the meeting at the Musain and resisted the urge to smack his head against the wood. He’d been so tired the night before and in such a rush this morning that he’d completely forgotten what day it was.   
   
It was Saturday.   
  
Courfeyrac was going flyering with Enjolras this morning. He was probably long gone by now. In which case, coffee would’ve been more appropriate than doughnuts, which would inevitably leave stains on the flyers and make for a very annoyed Enjolras. But there was nothing he could do about that now, seeing as he wasn’t even entirely sure where they were flyering. He knew the spot they’d planned, but there was a good chance that they’d migrate with the crowds as the morning went on, and he didn’t particularly feel like wandering around in the rain trying to find them without a little more information.   
  
The wood dug into the skin of his forehead and he felt the blood rushing to his cheeks.  _You are_ so  _smart_ , taunted the voice in his head.  _So, so smart._

He was still standing there with his head against the door when another resident came plodding up the stairs. He recognized her as the person living directly in the flat above his. He never heard her much at all, and, even though he didn’t really know her, he liked her for that little fact alone. She was still wrestling with a damp umbrella and the toes of her boots were slick with the rain. He watched her in her periphery. She slowed her pace, evidently trying to decide if she should ask what was wrong. She swatted away a wet curl from her eyes and then stopped completely.

“Are you - ?” she faltered as she stared at him. “Are you okay?”   

“Yes. Fine.” He managed a laugh at that. He forced himself to pull his head away from the door and take a few steps away from it.   
  
She gestured to his door with the hand not clutching the umbrella. “Don’t you live in this flat?” she wondered.   
  
“I do,” he confirmed. He twisted his neck over his shoulder and spared one last glance at Courfeyrac’s apartment. He sent a silent apology in the direction of his door. “I’ve just done something stupid. That’s all.”   
  
He watched her eyes brighten as she recognized the logo on the side of the bag. “Were you trying to surprise someone with that? That's so sweet of you."   
  
“ _T_ _rying_  is the operative word here.” He glanced at the bag of doughnuts, looking there so that he wouldn’t have to confront the sympathetic expression on her face. “But it appears as though he’s not home at the moment.”   
  
“Oh, that’s a bit of bad luck, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

On second thought, he moved closer to her and held them out in her direction. “Would you like them?”

She hesitated before answering, “Are you sure you want to give them away? Not that I’d necessarily be opposed to taking them off your hands.”

“I don’t need them anymore,” he said with a sigh. He gave the bag another shake, entreating her to take them. “But that doesn’t mean someone else shouldn’t enjoy them while they’re still fresh. I’m serious. Please take them.”

She sucked in her breath in as she finally accepted the offering. “Wow, thanks!” she said. “It must be my lucky day.”  
  
“Must be,” Combeferre agreed. He relaxed as he watched the delighted smile spread across her face and consoled himself with the thought that the trip had been worth it for this alone. At least they wouldn’t be wasted.

“Thanks again,” she called out over her shoulder. She was already heading toward the next flight of stairs, cradling the bag close to her chest. “His loss!”

_His loss, indeed._

He returned to his own apartment and dropped down onto the couch, all the while reminding himself that Courfeyrac would undoubtedly be back later. He still had plenty of time to figure something else out. He tipped over on the couch, tossing around potential ideas in his mind. Dinner could be a possibility, or maybe an offering of hot chocolate to chase away the chill from having been out in the rain.  
  
As he thought it through, he swiped his thumb across his screen, opening and closing the apps lined up in neat rows. He flicked through his Twitter feed next, only half-reading it. He sat up slowly as he noticed something Jehan had favorited earlier this morning. It was an earlier tweet from the group's public activist account, but it reminded him that he had yet to follow it. His heart jumped into his throat as he succeed in locating the most recent tweet.  _We're flyering at Jardin du Luxembourg this morning_ , it read. _Come see us!_  
  
He spared a laugh at that. Judging by the state of the weather, no one was going to be keen to head out.

It was just a friendly reminder, nothing more than that. But it was exactly what he needed.  _Thank you, Jehan_ , he thought as he swung his legs over the edge of the couch.   
  
Maybe his luck was finally changing.

* * *

This time he remembered to grab the umbrella out of his backpack before taking off again. He commended himself for his own foresight, as the rain began to pick up until it was coming down in torrents. When he realized that it must’ve been nearing eleven-fifteen by now, he picked up his pace to an outright run. There weren’t many other people apart from him who were brave enough to dare the weather at this hour. 

His shoes squelched on the pavement as he ran, and he could feel the water seeping into the places where his socks had slipped down from his ankles. But he didn’t care. He was going to get there before they bailed, come hell or high water. He was determined to make one thing go right today.   
  
The first hint of thunder was enough for him to push himself a bit more, as he was fairly certain Enjolras wouldn’t pack it in for rain, but he would for thunder. He skated around another corner. His quick speed combined with the lack of traction meant that he nearly toppled over doing so.   
  
His umbrella had also become useless in the past few minutes. Water droplets obscured his glasses. They ended up accumulating on the lenses, despite how frequently he attempted to use his damp coat sleeve to chase the water away.   
  
He forced himself to slow to a jog when he finally spotted them.  _I’m going to make it,_ he thought triumphantly. He could just barely make out Courfeyrac, who had a box of flyers propped against one hip. He cupped his free hand over his eyes, temporarily shielding them from the rain as he watched Combeferre’s approach.   
  
Combeferre had to shout in order to be heard above the din of the rain. He took a deep breath and tried his best to conceal his breathlessness. It hadn’t been a long run at all, and he could not believe how winded he was.   
  
He was quick to offer out the meager shelter of the umbrella and lamented the sight of the ink streaming off of the soaked flyers. “I was coming to join you, but I suspect you’re about to pack it in?”   
  
“We’re going somewhere dry!” Courfeyrac informed him as Combeferre angled the umbrella over his head. The roar of the rainfall lessened a bit beneath the material. For just a moment, Combeferre enjoyed the way they were huddled together and was grateful for the temporary respite. The run had been worth it. 

“My place is closest?” Enjolras offered, jolting Combeferre out of the trance he’d been in. He promptly gestured for Enjolras to squeeze underneath it, too.   
  
As he was the tallest, Combeferre ended up wedged between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. He did his best to angle the umbrella in a way that afforded maximum protection, but it didn’t do a remarkable job protecting one person, let alone the three crammed beneath it. 

During the entire walk to Enjolras’ apartment, Combeferre thought about one thing over and over again.  _I have a car_ , he reminded himself.  _I have a perfectly good car, so why didn’t I bring it?_ He’d been so anxious about the possibility of missing them entirely that it hadn’t even occurred to him to grab his keys and save himself some trouble.  __  
  
He would’ve arrived sooner and there would’ve been the added benefit of the heating system. Trying to navigate the flooded streets wouldn’t probably have been much better in a car, but it surely would’ve been preferable to wading through shin-deep water.  
  
As they were trudging into Enjolras’ apartment, sopping wet but otherwise no worse for the wear, Combeferre found himself thinking that there was at least one benefit to this situation.   
  
Before the downpour, he’d been wearing a white shirt. Much to his disappointment, it wasn’t as see-through as he thought it would be. Nonetheless, the benefit was that when he looked down, he could sort of begin to make out the tattoo on his chest. As he dripped onto the carpet and waited for someone to tell him what to do next, he hoped that maybe Courfeyrac would notice it. Maybe he’d even want to take a closer look at it. That was a scenario he could work with.   
  
He was so busy imagining all the different ways it could play out that he completely missed the exchange happening in front of him among Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire.    
  
It was true that he couldn’t quite make out the words through his shirt, but he thought the splotch of black lettering would be probably enough to pique anyone’s curiosity.   
  
The tattoo itself had been a stroke of genius. It was a simple phrase imprinted on his clavicle:  _Little keys open heavy doors_. A paraphrased Dickens quote and a pun, all in one. He was irrationally fond of it, and he was also irrationally fond of people’s reactions when they managed to work out the pun. The initial disgust paired with the begrudging appreciation of its undeniable cleverness was one of his favorite things.   
  
It  _was_ definitely something worth noticing. But if Courfeyrac did, he showed no sign of wanting to comment on it. He watched as Grantaire passed over bundles of clothing to both of them, trying to shove away his disappointment.    
  
A few minutes later, Combeferre pulled the bathroom door shut behind him, after having insisted Courfeyrac change first. It was only fair, as he’d been out in the storm longer. He’d hoped that their close proximity in the bathroom would’ve helped matters some, but that didn’t do the trick, either.     
  
As he waited for Courfeyrac to emerge from the bathroom again, he finally started to notice the details of the apartment around him.  
  
If he’d thought Courfeyrac’s decorating sense was strange, even after he’d picked out his furniture, it was nothing compared to what was in front of him. Everything seemed oddly mismatched. But he was sure there was some kind of scheme, even if he wasn’t exactly sure  _what_ the scheme was yet.   
  
He was drawn to the sight of the heavy law books stacked near an arm chair, forming a makeshift end table. He smiled as he remembered one that looked nearly identical to it, though it constructed of medical textbooks instead of law books, that served the same purpose on one side of Joly’s bed. He decided that it was the universal plight of students with non-returnable textbooks.

He turned at the sound of the door creaking open beside him. “Bathroom’s yours,” Courfeyrac announced.

Combeferre wasn’t sure if it’d been an accident that Grantaire had given him what was quite possibly the most form-fitting outfit imaginable. Both the jogging bottoms and the ill-fitting t-shirt was more than enough to wipe his mind blank for a few seconds.  _I’d hit that_ , the shirt announced above a piñata.   
  
Combeferre couldn’t help but wholeheartedly agree. He  _would_  hit that. Repeatedly.   
  
He pulled himself together as he looked a little closer at Courfeyrac’s shirt. He was struck with another idea. Maybe if he pointed out what Courfeyrac’s shirt said, maybe he would think to look at Combeferre’s, in turn. It was all about psychology. Or was it reverse psychology? He didn’t care enough to try and figure it out.   
  
“I’d hit that,” he said, adding in a laugh for good measure. He watched Courfeyrac react to what he’d said, moving from surprised, to hopeful, to flirty, and then finally ending with disappointment as he realized what Combeferre had been referring to. But his reaction was encouraging.

It was only then that Combeferre noticed the streak of ink on Courfeyrac’s cheek. The rain and then his own distraction had prevented him from pointing it out earlier.  _Missed a spot_ , he thought. There was no way to avoid commenting on it now. He inched a bit closer and raised his hand to his own cheek, thinking all the while that perhaps  _this_  would work.   
  
“You have something…” He smiled in a way that he hoped looked suitably encouraging as he watched Courfeyrac creep closer. He beat down the urge to just grab him and yank him over all the way. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his hands did not shake as he reached out to get rid of the last of it with his thumb. By the time he finished, they were standing so close that Combeferre could hear Courfeyrac suck in his breath. His pupils were blown wide as he stared back at him, his face agonizingly close. He was moving closer, his intentions crystal clear now.   
  
With a rush of relief Combeferre realized that this was going to be the very first thing Courfeyrac initiated the whole time they’d known each other.  _I thought you’d never do it_ , he thought. And if he wanted to be the one to start the kissing, so be it then. But a few seconds later, they weren’t kissing. Instead of closing the remainder of the distance, Courfeyrac had begun to retreat.

He suppressed the small disappointed noise that fought its way to his lips. By the time he succeeded in finding his voice, Courfeyrac had already disappeared, leaving him to wonder what he could’ve possibly done wrong.   
  
If Courfeyrac would’ve given him just  _one more second_  to register his hesitation and to properly react to it… He would’ve done it.   
  
He forced himself to go into the bathroom. He leaned against the door to close it behind him. Before it even clicked shut, he reached the conclusion that he was going to have to do something himself, seeing as Courfeyrac had made it clear that he was not going to be the one to do it. Even when he clearly wanted to.  
  
He spent a few more minutes trying to puzzle it out before giving up again. Why, why,  _why_.  

He was grateful that his phone had survived the storm unscathed. He made no move to change out of his clothes. God only knew what he’d ended up with. He eased the bundle onto the counter to free his hands. With a sigh, he consulted the time and then dialed the appropriate number for the hospital.   
  
He tipped his head back against the door while he waited for the nurse in the surgical ward to track down Joly. All the nurses hated when he did this, but he figured it was an exceptional circumstance. Much different from the time he’d been desperately needed to revive a dead iPod and had needed to get a hold of him to find out where he’d left the charger.   
  
She returned with a huff after placing him on hold, forcing him to listen to a full two minutes of the nauseating wait music. “I’m sorry, but he’s in surgery right now,” she reported.

“What do you mean he’s in surgery?” Combeferre whined. Joly wasn’t allowed to be in surgery when he was having a crisis. Maybe they’d just let him stay on hold, if he was almost finished. “I thought he didn’t have anything scheduled for today.”

“It was an emergency scrub-in. The on-call surgeon needed his help dealing with a hernia.”  

“ _Please_  tell me he’s almost done, then?”

“No, they just started, actually. About fifteen minutes ago. But I’ll be sure to tell him you called when he finishes up.” 

“Great. Thanks.”

He moved forward and deposited the phone on the counter. He forced himself to meet the sight of his reflection in the mirror. He realized that he still hadn’t had a chance to thank him yet for working his magic to get him off early last night.   
  
He stared into the mirror and didn’t flinch away from the pained look he encountered there. It passed after another moment and was replaced with determination instead.

He didn’t need to speak with Joly to figure out that he needed to make a change. He decided it didn’t matter whether or not it looked like Courfeyrac wanted to take the lead. They’d been down this road, multiple times now, and it always ended the same way. There was no use repeating things over and over again and expecting different results. 

By the time he’d changed out of his wet clothes, he decided that it was going to have to be up to him to make the next move. They’d never get beyond this awkward dance they had going on if he left Courfeyrac to his own devices. He knew that now.   
  
He returned to the living room and found Courfeyrac and Grantaire on the sofa. Grantaire draped his arm over Courfeyrac's shoulders. Courfeyrac leaned into the touch, allowing himself be pulled closer.

_With any luck_ ,  _that’ll be me soon_ , Combeferre thought.   
  
As he dropped down into an empty armchair, he resolved to do something,  _anything_ , at the next possible opportunity. His determination thus renewed, he continued to breathe deeply and willed himself to relax. _It’s going to be alright,_  he chanted to himself.  _It’ll be alright_.  
  
It was actually going to be  _more_  than alright, if he had his way. The mere notion of it made his stomach twist in anticipation. _Next time_ , he promised himself. A moment later, a brief frustrated thought flashed through his mind.   
  
 _Next time will not come soon enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank [Jenny](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com) for the ingenious tattoo idea -- the Latin word for clavicle means "little key." Thank you for reading. :)  
> [Tumblr!](http://combeferree.tumblr.com)


	12. Chapter 12

Combeferre woke up in time to watch the sun dawn over a new day. If the clear sky and abundance of sunlight was anything to go by, the weather was undoubtedly going to be an improvement on the previous day’s rain. It felt auspicious enough.

And yet. The onslaught of light filtering into his room did nothing to dispel the longing that made the rest of his thoughts seem foggy. Lounging around Enjolras’ apartment yesterday with Courfeyrac’s feet comfortably situated in his lap had been the perfect balm to soothe the ache of a day gone awry. The four of them together had been so easy, so effortless. Even if none of it had been real in the way he wished it was.

And that wasn’t even including the incident on the metro. While Courfeyrac had been resting against his shoulder, an elderly woman next to him had whispered about how cute they were together. Combeferre was almost fooled into agreeing with her. He’d been anxious to hear Courfeyrac’s response, but he’d been dozing, or else too deep in thought to have heard it. A moment later, he’d stuttered as he corrected her, and she’d given him a small smile and a knowing look before leaning back in her seat.

What was _that_ supposed to mean?

Combeferre rolled over and checked his phone, still cherishing some hope that Joly would’ve gotten around to answering him by now. He groaned as he noticed that all his messages were still unread. Either the nurse hadn’t passed along his message or Joly really had been too busy since the surgery ended to respond.

By the time he managed to actually get out of bed and shower, he’d talked himself out of doing anything at all. He perked up as he was struck with an idea, an idea that was infinitely preferable to moping around the flat all morning. He shrugged on his coat and decided that there was only one place to go when he was in danger of overthinking everything.

He pulled the door shut behind him, his thoughts still swinging back and forth like a pendulum. _Be brave or be a coward. Do something or don’t,_ he chastised himself.  _Would you make up your mind already?_ _  
_

He spared a cursory glance at Courfeyrac’s door as he passed it, sending a silent promise in his direction that he’d return shortly. Ideally, with his resolve renewed after a pep talk. He hummed as he jogged down the stairs, car keys in hand.

Joly would know what to do. Joly always knew what to do.

Or, as he corrected himself twenty minutes later, Joly _would’ve_ known what to do, if he'd been in a position to answer the door. He’d heard an alarming amount of moaning from the moment he’d set foot in the stairwell and had nearly turned back around. Right then, he'd known there was a small chance that he’d be able to get Joly to come to the door long enough to ask him anything. But it was worth a shot.

“Open up!” Combeferre called out as he pounded his fists against the door. The force was enough to rattle the wood. “I know you’re in there!”

He smacked against it again and tried to turn the knob. It was all in vain, as the past few minutes of knocking had been more than enough to inform him that the deadbolt was securely in place, no matter how much he wished he could force it to yield by combining his fists with the power of his will.

He gave one last halfhearted smack with his palm before tipping his head against the wood. “The whole building knows you’re home, Joly,” he said, lowering his voice from a shout but still speaking loudly enough to be heard through the door. “All the moaning isn’t exactly subtle, you know.”

He shuffled backward a few steps until his back came into contact with the wall opposite Joly’s door. “Well, unless the moaning isn’t coming from you. In which case, please accept my sincerest apologies,” he continued. He listened to the sound of his coat scraping against the drywall as he lowered himself to the floor, using the wall for support. He looked up in time to watch the little old lady in the flat opposite peer out of her door, clutching a steaming mug of coffee. He lifted a hand in greeting and she responded to it with a friendly nod.

“It’s been this way all morning,” she informed him. She knelt down in front of her doormat long enough to retrieve the folded newspaper that had been left there overnight. “Would you like some coffee, at least, while you’re waiting?” She directed a wary look at Joly’s door, the paper tucked under her arm.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m good,” he replied. “It won’t be much longer now.”

She smiled at that. “Is that a promise?” she wondered, while reaching out to clutch her doorknob. She pushed her door open but made no move to go inside yet. “You better not be lying to me, boy.”

In response, he focused his attention back on Joly’s door. He raised his voice a bit and called out, “I have to say, if it is your neighbor who’s making all that noise, she sounds _remarkably_ like you did when we were roommates.” He turned long enough to wink at Joly’s neighbor before she retreated back into her flat, laughing to herself. He picked at a piece of the fraying carpet to give his fingers something to do. “And that's not a compliment to her.”

He drew his knees to his chest, unperturbed by the lack of response. There was nothing like desperation to help him muster up the patience needed for the wait. His only consolation was that the interruption would eventually be enough to annoy Joly into answering the door. “Congrats on your hernia surgery, by the way,” he added after another moment. “Heard your resident’s very impressed. Not an easy thing to do. Impressing a resident, I mean. But I imagine repairing a hernia isn’t an easy thing to do, either. Which one’s easier?” He paused, as if provide Joly with enough time to answer. “Yeah, I agree, definitely hernia surgery,” he said solemnly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then he noticed that the hallway had grown very quiet since he’d started speaking this last part.

He perked up at the sound of the deadbolt clicking. He sent a quick _I told you so_ in the direction of the neighbor’s door and hoped that she’d be able to enjoy her morning in peace. He scrambled to his feet as he heard the clinking of the door chain inside. As he waited for the door to open all the way, he thought about how it was somewhat redundant to use a door-chain when the deadbolt was already in place.

But any thought he may have had concerning deadbolts and door-chains were gone in the next five seconds when Joly pulled the door open all the way. He was flushed all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears and had nothing but a towel draped around his waist. His hair was sticking out in at least four different directions, and he had an assortment of red marks scattered along his neck. Combeferre raised his eyebrows at the sight of him and had to stuff the side of his hand in his mouth to keep himself from laughing as Joly glared at him.

He lowered his hand as soon as the impulse had safely passed. “You’re a sight to behold this morning,” he observed. He had to admit that this was relatively decent; he’d seen much worse before.

Joly rolled his eyes and then folded his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

Combeferre rearranged his face into his best petulant expression. “I tried to call you yesterday? Right after you went into surgery? Did you get my message?” It sounded flimsy, even to him. Definitely not a good enough reason for all the noise he was making. “It was really important.”

Joly stared back at him, his expression softening some. “No, I didn’t,” he said, his annoyance gradually deflating. “I’ve been a bit busy…” He gave his hand a wave in the air as he tried to come up with the right word. “ _Celebrating_ ,” he decided. “Last night and, uh, again this morning.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Combeferre replied. “But since I’ve got you here can I just ask you something - ”

“Is this about Courfeyrac?” Joly interrupted, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Well, yes.” Combeferre started speaking rapidly as he watched Joly’s hand creeping to the side of the door. “We almost kissed yesterday, and I don’t know what to do because it just seems like he really wants to, you know? But he won’t do _anything_ about it. Why won’t he - ?”

He stopped abruptly as the door slammed in his face. “Alright, I deserve that,” he acknowledged. He listened for the deadbolt and felt a surge of hope when he didn’t hear it click into place again.

“We’ve been through this. Multiple times,” Joly reminded him through the door. There was no annoyance in it, only weariness. “Be brave. Go tell him how you feel.”

“It’s not that easy.” Combeferre traced a pattern on the wood finish with his fingertips. He waited for a while, straining to try and hear something, _anything_ , from the other side of the door. He took a step back as he felt it opening again. “Please take pity on me,” he pleaded, as Joly propped the door open with his hip.

"No, I’m not going to pity you," Joly said resolutely. "I’m going to help you. There’s a difference." He tried to smile as Joly pulled him inside and enveloped him into a hug. He placed his lips close to Combeferre’s ear and said, “One day, when you’re whining to me about writing your wedding vows, I’m going to remind you about this, okay?”

“Well, that’s quite optimistic, don’t you think?” Combeferre managed.

“You’re really daft sometimes, you know that?” Joly said, while withdrawing his arms from around Combeferre’s shoulders. “I swear, he could show up naked on your doorstep, and you’d _still_ think he didn’t like you.”

Combeferre opened his mouth with the intention of asking Joly about the probability of that scenario actually happening, but he was prevented from doing so by Bossuet’s frenzied shouting. He stumbled across the living room, laughing wildly as he clutched his phone against his chest. Combeferre was grateful that he was at least partially dressed. “Joly! You won’t believe - what Courfeyrac has done - this time!” he managed through his laughter. “Morning, Combeferre,” he greeted, as if this was the most normal situation in the world.

“What’s Courfeyrac done?” Combeferre prompted, while Joly moved away. He sidled up to Bossuet, who helpfully angled the screen toward him.

“Right. Get this,” he said, while Joly scanned the message. “R _just_ texted me, and he said Courfeyrac’s locked himself out of his flat and, wait for it, this is the best part! He’s - ”

He tried to say something else, but it was cut off when Joly’s hand slapped over his mouth, his fingers nearly white from the effort of pressing against his lips. “You should go help him,” Joly announced. He lowered his hand from Bossuet’s mouth and shot him a warning look, enough to effectively prevent him from speaking. Regardless of the stern expression, Combeferre didn’t think he would’ve been able to say anything else, due to his laughter.

"What, really?"

"Really." Joly crossed the room again, his expression solemn. He scrutinized Combeferre, taking a moment to fix his hair in the places where it’d been flattened from having been pressed against the wall.

“What are you doing?” Combeferre wondered.

Joly made no move to respond. He adjusted the angle of Combeferre’s glasses and straightened his collar, deep in concentration.

“Seriously, what are you doing?” he said slowly.

Joly moved away for a moment to dig out a container of breath mints from the backpack that had been tossed near the door. He popped two of them in Combeferre’s mouth before turning him around and pushing him into the hallway. “You can thank me later,” he said vaguely. “Now, go.”

Combeferre turned around and stared blankly at the door as it was shut in his face for the second time that day. If Courfeyrac was locked out, why did it matter what his hair looked like or if his breath smelled good? All he’d be wanting was a spare key, or a place to wait until the locksmith showed up. None of this was making any sense.

“GO!” Joly shouted through the door.

Spurred along by Joly’s encouragement, he hastened down the hallway. He found himself rushing as he jogged down the steps to the front entrance to Joly’s building. But he’d slowed considerably by the time he spotted his car in the parking lot. He turned his keys in the ignition and sat deliberating behind the wheel for a few more minutes. By the end of his contemplation, he was still confused about what could possibly be so hysterically funny about Courfeyrac getting locked out of his flat.

By the time he’d driven home and ducked through the front entrance, he realized that the only plausible reason he could come up with was that Bossuet was laughing in sympathy, perhaps from having been in a similar situation before. He sent a ritual fond look in the direction of the mailboxes in the front lobby before staring the long haul up to their floor. He counted the steps and wondered what they expected him to do about the situation. It wasn’t like he’d been given a spare key. He wouldn’t be opposed to one, of course, but that was beside the point.

 _Well, misery loves company,_ he reminded himself as he ascended the final flight of stairs. But that still was no reason for Joly’s enthusiasm. He spared a glance at Courfeyrac’s door, his eyes sweeping over the area. He frowned and did his best to beat down his disappointment. He jiggled the knob on Courfeyrac’s door next to check if the problem had been resolved already. Still locked.

He crossed over to his side and tried the door, surprised to find that he’d been so absentminded earlier that he’d forgotten to lock it in the first place. He wondered why Courfeyrac hadn’t thought to try it.

He lowered his hand slowly as he heard the scraping of bare feet against carpet paired with labored breathing. That pace combined with the rough carpeting on the stairs was surely going to hurt later –

He clenched his jaw out of the fear that it would fall right open as he turned around all the way. He continued to stare as Courfeyrac staggered down the last few steps.

Courfeyrac in a towel. But even that was a generous description. Was that a hand-towel or one used to dry hair? Either way, it was quite possibly the smallest towel he’d seen in his entire life.

He resisted the urge to throw his hands up in exasperation at the sight of it. What, was today the day everyone had decided to wear nothing but towels and he’d missed the memo?

“I’m locked out,” Courfeyrac informed him, prompting Combeferre to force his gaze back up from where it’d been focused on his bare chest. He hopped down off of the last step and pressed closer, not stopping until he was just as close as he’d been the previous afternoon. Combeferre tried to focus on his face, could potentially count all the freckles there if he felt so inclined, but it was all in vain.

 _He could show up naked on your doorstep and you’d_ still _think –_

Oh.

_Oh._

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he decided, saying it out loud at the same time he resolved to do it in his mind. He leaned closer and had half a mind to ask whether he’d done this whole thing just for him. Because it was the simultaneously the sweetest and strangest thing anyone had ever done to get his attention.

 _Act now,_ he reminded himself. _And thank Joly later._

He leaned forward the rest of the way, pressing his mouth against Courfeyrac’s lips. It took a few more kisses before he started wondering why his mouth tasted like dried fruit. But that was before Courfeyrac’s hands found his way to his neck and he melted beneath his touch. He threw out an arm to brace himself as Courfeyrac sent him stumbling back against the wall. A moment later, his eyes widened as he felt the hard surface of his door digging into his shoulder blades. It could’ve been a coincidence but it also could’ve been Courfeyrac’s subtle way of indicating where he wanted to go. He would’ve laughed at it, had Courfeyrac’s tongue in his mouth hadn’t prevented him from doing so.

“Would you – would you like to come inside?” he wondered, as soon as they’d stopped long enough for him to squeeze in a question.

“Yes, please.” Courfeyrac watched him with a contented smile, his chest heaving as he curled his hands into the material of Combeferre’s coat. He looked ready to pull him close again  at a moment’s notice.

He managed to throw the door open before Courfeyrac started kissing him again, while at the same time backing him into his flat. He obligingly moving in the direction he was steered in without bothering to worry about where he was going. He was just about to marvel over the fact that Courfeyrac already knew his way around fairly well when the back of his knees collided with the coffee table, prompting them both to stop kissing long enough to laugh. He made a point to move the other direction and then allowed himself to be pressed against the back of the couch.

How many times had he imagined this very thing? Too many to count. Granted, there hadn’t been a towel involved in any of those imaginings, but it was an added benefit, as far as he was concerned. It was much more efficient this way.

“I’ve wanted to do this for too long,” Courfeyrac admitted, almost as if he’d been able to read Combeferre’s mind.

Combeferre screwed his eyes shut as he felt Courfeyrac drag his lips along his jaw and finally settle them in the hollow beneath his ear. After another moment, he turned his attention to his neck instead.

“What took us so long?” he asked, punctuating the question with a moan. Courfeyrac had successfully managed to unbutton his shirt and was now kissing along the curve of his collarbone.

“I wanted to ask you out since I first ran into you,” he confessed.

Combeferre let his eyes open just in time to watch Courfeyrac press his lips against his tattoo. “Why didn’t you, then?” His lips twitched, though he couldn’t settle on what it was he wanted to say. Everything he came up with was a variation of the same basic question: _you mean we could’ve been doing this weeks ago?_

“I couldn’t.” Courfeyerac pressed another kiss to his chest, as if in reassurance that he’d return there soon. “There was this bet.” His fear must have shown on his face because a moment later, Courfeyrac shook his head. “I lost a bet,” he said. The words rushed out of his mouth, all the more forceful for having been dammed up for so long. “And I wasn’t allowed to ask anyone out. For an entire month.”

All of things he’d feared and all of the anxiety he’d harbored about Courfeyrac not returning his feelings appeared before him then. They seemed ridiculous and trite compared to the actual reason that they’d been dancing awkwardly around each other. All of it because of a bet.

“Well, that was daft,” he said, partly addressing the comment to himself and partly directing it toward Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac readily agreed and hardly gave him a chance to pucker before he was being kissed again.

He moved his head back slightly, leaving Courfeyrac to chase after the kiss. “I thought you didn’t like me,” he said before sparing another laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“I do,” Courfeyrac assured him. The consequent kiss and the act of tipping their foreheads together was meant to convey that the feeling was mutual. After another moment, the remainder of his doubts had been chased away, leaving only an overwhelming sense of relief in their wake. “I _really_ do.”

It was only then that Combeferre felt his phone buzzing in the back pocket of his jeans. He frowned, having been under the impression that he’d left it in the pocket of his already-discarded coat. He consulted it long enough to see Joly’s texts ( _i can hear you moaning all the way over here_ and _you’re welcome, you ingrate!!_ ) before tossing it onto the couch cushion. He angled his head in the direction of the bedroom in invitation. “Shall we?”

Courfeyrac’s face took on a thoughtful quality for a moment. “Wait. Don’t you think I should get undressed first?” he said wryly. He glanced down momentarily and was smirking when he looked up again. He displayed the tiny towel triumphantly in his hand. ”Huh. Would you look at that?”

“Very convenient,” Combeferre agreed, while beckoning him closer.

It wasn’t until later - when they were lounging on the mattress with the sheets tangled at the foot of the bed, the pillows dislodged, and the comforter lying in a heap on the floor - that a final thought occurred to him. He was going to ask properly this time, now that Courfeyrac was dozing at his side and in no danger of leaving anytime soon. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought of it, even though he already knew exactly how Courfeyrac was going to answer. 

“Hey, would you like to go out for coffee sometime?” he wondered. 

“I want nothing more,” Courfeyrac said with a smile.

Combeferre was inclined to agree with him. _I just want you and nothing but you,_ he longed to add.

As he reclined against one of the pillows shoved behind his back, he tried to envision the future, a future that would be theirs to share. Despite his best efforts to imagine what was in store for them, he couldn’t make out much beyond the fact that it was going to be bright.

And, for now, that was more than enough.

-End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Thanks so much for reading!! Thank you also to [Jenny](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com) for the endless moral support (you're the very, very best <3).  
> P.S. We have an epilogue in mind, as well, for those who are interested. :)


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